by Leslie Meier
Poor Luther, thought Lucy, as she headed back to the hotel. Even in death he was only a big fish in a small pond. Still, the Globe had given the story twenty inches, and she wished she had time to read every word. Maybe, she thought hopefully, the panel would start late. The hotel lobby certainly seemed deserted, with none of its usual hustle and bustle, as if people were still recovering from last night’s extraordinary events.
She had reached the stairs and was poised to go down to the meeting room when she hesitated, wondering if the panels had been canceled. When she got to the meeting room, however, she found a handful of tired-looking people, most of them clutching cups of coffee. She joined them, sipping from her own extra-large cup and reading the Globe story while she waited for the panel to start.
Not that it told her anything she didn’t know. Luther’s death was under investigation, but few facts were known, reported Brad McAbee. The remainder of the story was devoted to an account of Luther’s career and the Newspaperman of the Year award he would have received. Lucy got the impression that the story had originally been written to announce the award and a few lead paragraphs had been added after news of his death broke.
Lucy turned to the Herald, which was definitely the more lively of the city’s two papers. Lucy chuckled over the front page, where enormous black letters proclaimed CAUGHT over a photo of a city official cavorting with lobbyists and scantily clad women on the deck of a cabin cruiser named Bad Company. She was flipping through the rest of the paper when another photograph caught her eye. In town for the Northeast Newspaper Association conference, Northampton News publisher Catherine Read and partner Heloise Randall danced the night away Sunday at Cambridge’s famed girl bar the Coven, read the cutline. The photo showed Catherine, in a slinky halter top, gyrating opposite a tall, statuesque blond. They both seemed to be having a great time.
Interesting, thought Lucy, turning her attention to the panel. It was on Internet reporting, and had been one of the first she had chosen when she filled out her conference registration form weeks ago in Tinker’s Cove. She knew the value of the Internet to a small-town reporter like herself and was eager to learn more ways to take advantage of it. So far she’d mostly used it to get statistics from state agencies. If she wanted to know how many cars were registered in town, or how many pounds of lobster had been landed over the past five years, or how many people were collecting social security, she could have the answer in a matter of minutes instead of the days it used to take to track down that information by telephone. The right person always seemed to be on vacation, or taking lunch, or in a meeting.
Lucy knew she’d only scratched the surface, however. There was lots more information available, if only she knew how to access it. When the panelists got started, however, it soon became clear that they were talking about a different Internet than the one she had dabbled in. All three speakers had been spending way too much time in virtual reality, and had no idea how to relate to ordinary people. So they talked to each other, tossing around terms that nobody understood and making jokes that nobody got. She was longing for them to announce a break, when Sam Syrjala staggered into the room, dropped his briefcase on a chair, and headed for the podium.
“The newspaper business sure ain’t what it used to be,” he proclaimed as he lurched down the aisle between the seats. Observing his unsteady progress, Lucy was pretty sure he was drunk. Again. At ten in the morning.
Sam reached the podium and hugged it, causing consternation among the panelists, who didn’t seem to know what to do about this interloper.
“Used to be we called ’em like we saw ’em….” He shook his head slowly, as if it were a fragile container holding something precious. “Not anymore. Now if the cops arrest a black, we gotta ask if it’s racial profiling. If you’re writing about a woman, you gotta choose your words carefully: it’s single mother, not unmarried. There’s no more illegitimate kids, for God’s sake. Did you know that?”
He stared blearily at the audience, challenging someone, anyone, to respond.
“It’s true,” he continued when no one spoke up. “Don’t ask me how, but even though these kids’ mothers never bothered to get married, the little bastards, they’re not illegitimate.”
He let go of the podium and threw out his arms for emphasis, swaying crazily.
“PC, political correctness, is gonna be the death of newspapers.” He held up a finger and waggled it in front of his eyes. “See if it isn’t,” he said, and rested his head on the podium.
There was a buzz among the astonished audience members, and two of the panelists began an anxious, whispered conversation.
“Maybe we’d better get him up to his room,” suggested one man, who was sitting in the front row.
“Good idea,” said a second.
They each took a side, lifting Syrjala’s arms over their shoulders and dragging him from the room.
One of the computer experts was speaking, apologizing for the interruption, when Lucy noticed Syrjala’s briefcase, still propped on the chair where he had dropped it.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “They forgot his briefcase. I’ll take it to him.”
She was gone before anyone could object. It was only when she was safe in her room with the door closed behind her that she stopped to wonder what she was doing. Had she simply seized an excuse to leave the boring workshop, or did she hope to find evidence of some sort?
She set the briefcase—a battered leather model, the old-fashioned kind with accordion sides and a leather flap with a brass catch that held it closed—on the desk and sat down on the foot of the bed to think.
What did she hope to find? What did she think was inside? Papers, probably just papers. That’s what briefcases usually held. Company reports, maybe, from Pioneer Press Group. Financial statements, budgets, memos, all of which could shed light on the company and maybe even provide a motive for Luther Read’s murder. Sam and Harold were buddies, after all, and neither man agreed with Luther’s liberal approach. Harold was a dyed-in-the-wool New Hampshire conservative and Sam, well, whatever his politics were, they appeared to be pretty reactionary.
Even more interesting, thought Lucy, both men would have had reason to oppose the sale of Pioneer Press Group to National Media. Sam, who clearly had a drinking problem, would most certainly be fired by the new owners. And Harold didn’t want to lose control of his newspaper, which gave him a powerful voice in national politics vis-à-vis the New Hampshire primary.
Rumor was that the sale was off, but Lucy didn’t know if that was true. And even if it was, the two men might have worried that Luther would again change his mind. Had the two men teamed up to murder Luther, fearing he was becoming too unpredictable? Had they conspired with each other, coming up with the plan to trigger Luther’s asthma? If she opened the briefcase, would she find a full inhaler inside?
Lucy looked at the briefcase. It wasn’t even locked; the flap was loose. It wasn’t really violating his privacy to look inside; Syrjala had left it unattended. Why, in his condition, he might have dropped it and spilled the contents for anyone to see.
Maybe that was what she should do, thought Lucy. Just kind of knock it off the desk and see if anything spilled out.
No, she decided, if she was going to do it she might as well do it thoroughly. She spread the two sides apart and peered into the briefcase.
It was empty. No papers, no books, nothing, except for the side pocket, where she found a pint bottle of bourbon with about an inch remaining in the bottom.
Lucy suddenly felt very foolish. The man was an alcoholic; he had to stash his booze somewhere. What better place than a briefcase? Especially at a conference where most everyone was carrying one. She picked up the phone and asked to be connected to his room.
“’Lo!”
“Mr. Syrjala?”
“Yuh.”
“I have your briefcase. You left it in the conference room.”
There was silence; then Sam spoke. “Who ar
e you?”
“Lucy Stone.”
“With Ted? From Maine?”
“That’s me,” said Lucy, surprised that he knew who she was.
“Well, uh, could you bring it to my room? I’m not feeling so well.”
Lucy considered. This could be an opportunity to ask a few questions. Syrjala was drunk; he might also be loose-lipped.
“What’s your room number?”
Lucy jotted it down on the notepad thoughtfully provided by the hotel and hung up. Then, before she could change her mind, she took the elevator down to the fifth floor, where she ran straight into Harold. Once again she was struck by the family resemblance. He looked like a shorter, stockier Luther. Where Luther had been relaxed and open, however, his brother was all business.
“I’m Harold Read,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Sam told me you’ve got something of his.”
“I’m Lucy Stone,” she said, taking his hand. “He left his briefcase downstairs.”
Harold didn’t let her go, but held on to her hand, squeezing her fingers painfully.
Lucy’s eyes widened. “What do you think—”
“You were on the down elevator.”
His grip softened, and Lucy pulled her hand away.
“So what? I had to go to my room to call him and find out his room number.”
“Or maybe you’re some sort of snoop.” Harold’s eyes were flat and accusatory.
“I’m doing the man a favor,” said Lucy, meeting his stare as she handed over the briefcase. She didn’t know where she found the nerve, but she wasn’t going to admit anything to this horrible man. Certainly not that she had searched the briefcase.
“Maybe,” admitted Harold, holding the briefcase with two hands. “Of course you are.” He paused. “We’re all pretty upset. I didn’t mean to be rude.” He glanced at the door to Syrjala’s room. “Sam’s not really up for company. He’s taking my brother’s death very hard.”
That was one interpretation of Sam’s behavior, but not one Lucy necessarily agreed with. She wasn’t about to argue, however. She just wanted to get away.
Harold pushed the elevator call button and waited with her.
“I expect you’ll want to get back to the panel. Internet reporting, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting subject. So much potential.”
“Absolutely.”
The elevator doors opened.
“Have a good day,” said Harold.
“Thanks,” said Lucy.
But as the door closed and the elevator descended, Lucy wondered what was going on. Harold must have been in the room with Syrjala when she called, and had gone out in the hallway to meet her. Did he want to hide Syrjala’s condition from her? That hardly explained his hostile behavior, accusing her of snooping.
She had been snooping, of course. She was a reporter; it was part of her job. And Syrjala knew who she was. He’d been at the panel yesterday when she’d bragged about all the big stories she’d broken. He might even know about the prize she’d won.
Even so, Harold had been very aggressive. Trying to scare her off, perhaps? But why? What did he have to hide? The more she thought about it, the odder it seemed. Why did the Reads tolerate Syrjala’s behavior in the first place? The man was a legendary drunk. Catherine didn’t like him; she’d told Lucy as much. Even if he and Harold went way back, as people said, Sam’s behavior would certainly seem to strain the bonds of friendship.
Things weren’t adding up, and Lucy wanted to know why, but she’d have to wait. First she had to write that remembrance piece for Ted.
Chapter Eight
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be at a workshop?” demanded Ted when he answered Lucy’s knock.
“Trust me. This is a better use of my time,” replied Lucy, marching past him and plunking herself down in a chair.
Ted’s room was a mess. The bed wasn’t made, a wet towel was on the floor outside the bathroom, and rumpled clothes and papers were strewn everywhere. Half of a pizza remained in an open box perched on top of the TV. Lucy investigated. It was mushroom. She took a piece and bit into it.
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” cautioned Ted. “It’s from last night.”
“I didn’t have any breakfast,” said Lucy, chewing. “It’s not bad.”
“Have you seen that bumper sticker? ‘Sex is like pizza. Even when it’s bad, it’s good.’”
As soon as he’d said it, Ted blushed furiously. Head bent, he started flipping though a pile of papers. When he found the one he wanted he cleared his throat and handed it to her.
“These are the quotes Phyllis got.”
Lucy knew he hadn’t meant anything. The words had popped out before he realized he was alone in a hotel room with a female employee. She took the page and skimmed it.
“Popular guy. Not a negative quote in the bunch.”
“It’s a small-town rule: Never speak ill of the dead until the estate has paid the outstanding bills.”
“Did Luther owe a lot of money?”
“The richer they are, the slower they are to pay. You know the dry cleaner cut off the Winships last summer? They ran up a bill in the thousands.”
Lucy knew it was true. The wealthy summer people with their enormous “cottages” on Smith Heights Road all had charge accounts with local merchants. Although they often complained, most of the shopkeepers tolerated slow payments because they didn’t want to lose the business.
“Are you sure we can do this?” she asked, as she started clicking away on the laptop computer. “I don’t want to go to jail for contempt or anything.”
“All we’re doing is reporting the fact that Luther Read, prominent summer resident, died at a newspaper conference in Boston, and providing some local reaction. We’re not going to do anything about the investigation, we’re not going to include any firsthand reports, we’re not going to speculate. Just the facts, ma’am.”
“Okay, okay. I guess reporting the fact that he liked to go fishing for striped bass isn’t going to impede the investigation.”
She was working on a quote from the commodore of the yacht club, where Luther kept his boat. He also liked to buy fresh corn at the farmstand and lobsters from the lobster pound, and occasionally went to church on Sunday. He had a decent handicap in golf, but preferred tennis, which he played regularly with Fred Ames, the president of the Tinker’s Cove Five Cents Savings Bank. He collected decoys.
“This is fascinating stuff,” said Lucy, yawning ostentatiously. “Somehow I don’t think his tennis partner killed him. You want to take a look at this before I send it?”
Lucy got up to stretch while Ted read the story on the little screen. When he finished he e-mailed it to Phyllis, back in the Pennysaver office in Tinker’s Cove.
“I’m sure Luther was a really nice guy,” began Lucy, “but there’s something weird about Pioneer Press.”
“They’re making money and the rest of us are struggling?”
“Well, yeah,” said Lucy. “And everybody’s all nicey-nice but somehow it’s all surface. I had lunch with Catherine yesterday and she seemed very guarded. Very careful about what she said.”
Ted laughed. “Just because she didn’t bare her soul in response to your probing questions doesn’t mean she’s guarded. She’s probably just a private person.”
“A private person who goes out dancing half-naked with her same-sex partner.”
“That’s something else entirely. Everybody lets their hair down sometime.”
“Or maybe Luther didn’t approve of her lifestyle and she killed him after enduring years of insults and abuse.”
“You’ve got some imagination.”
“Or what about Harold, the brother? They have very different views, after all. Luther was pretty liberal and Harold’s conservative. Maybe he wants to get control of the entire chain.”
“People don’t generally kill their brothers because of political convictions,” said Ted.
“
I guess you never heard of the Civil War,” said Lucy.
“Point taken,” said Ted. “But I’d put my money on Harold’s wife, Inez. The dragon lady. Remember, the female of the species is deadlier than the male.”
“Then I guess we have to consider Monica Underwood.”
“What possible motive could she have?” asked Ted.
“Could be anything, I suppose. He called her by his late wife’s name in a moment of passion. He threatened to print her real age. He was fooling around with another woman. He picked his teeth, or his nose. He had a—”
“I get the idea,” said Ted, cutting her off. “Intimacy breeds contempt. The love/hate thing. A woman scorned. But it was early in the relationship, wasn’t it? There really wasn’t time for that sort of contempt to grow. That sort of thing takes years to get to the breaking point.” He scratched his head. “But if you’re going to consider Catherine, why not Junior? Fathers and sons. The king must die; long live the king.”
“Nope. I can’t go there. My daughter is working for that man, taking care of his little boy. Elizabeth is not working for a murderer and that’s that.”
“So much for rational deduction,” said Ted.
“I never said I was rational,” retorted Lucy. “I rely on intuition. And my intuition tells me it’s Sam Syrjala.”
“And why is that?”
“That whole thing is screwy. The guy’s a drunk. Anybody else would fire him, but they treat him like he’s a member of the family. It’s as if he’s got something on them, you know? A big secret.”
“But why would he kill Luther? Wouldn’t it be the other way ’round? Besides, Syrjala stayed behind at the table. He wasn’t with Luther when he died.”
“But Harold was,” said Lucy thoughtfully.
“And so were a lot of other people, including Junior.”
“I haven’t worked it all out yet,” admitted Lucy.
“And you’re not going to,” said Ted in a warning tone. “This has been a lot of fun, but I hope you don’t think you’re going to launch your own little investigation. You’re here for the newspaper conference, to polish your reportorial skills.”
