by Leslie Meier
“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.
Chapter Fourteen
Three 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.
“Be
tter 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.
Oh, well. She sighed, reaching for the room-service menu. Throwing caution to the wind, she decided to splurge. After all, the Trask Trust was covering her expenses. She hadn’t even paid for her drinks at the bar; Carole had refused her money. She hadn’t spent a cent of her own money so far, except for a couple of dollars for Bill’s Father’s Day card. A girl had to do what a girl had to do and it looked as if this girl’s immediate future included chicken Caesar salad, chocolate cake, and Cary Grant.
Chapter Fifteen
“My, my, don’t you look bright and perky this morning.”
Lucy was sitting i
n the coffee shop, savoring her morning coffee and reading the Herald. She smiled at Carole, who she had to admit looked better than she would have expected, considering the number of double martinis she’d downed the day before. Her crisp, starched white shirt gave her a fresh appearance, and the short skirt she was wearing showed her legs to advantage, tipped with a pair of sexy, killer heels.
“I had a wonderful time last night.”
“A man? Did you meet a man?” Carole sat down in the opposite chair and put down her coffee. “Someone here at the convention? Tell me all about it.”
Now that she looked closer, Lucy could see that Carole was wearing rather a lot of skillfully applied makeup.
“The handsomest man I’ve ever seen,” said Lucy with a sigh. “Sophisticated, urbane, a real knight in shining armor.”
“He couldn’t be in the newspaper business then,” said Carole, unsnapping the lid on her coffee with a slightly trembling hand. “How’d you meet him?” Her eyes fell on Lucy’s left hand. “Hey, aren’t you married?”
Lucy tried very hard and almost succeeded in pulling off a world-weary shrug.
“There’s nothing the matter with a little extracurricular activity—so long as my husband doesn’t find out.”
Carole’s eyes widened. “Somehow I didn’t take you for that kind of girl.”
Lucy couldn’t contain herself any longer and burst out laughing. “It was Cary Grant. I spent last night in my room—alone—watching Notorious.”
“You really had me going,” said Carole, taking a swallow of coffee. “But I was suspicious. He sounded too good to be true.” She sighed. “Believe me, I know from experience.”
“I’ve been married for a very long time,” said Lucy. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to be unattached and dating.”
“After my last relationship ended I decided to swear off men forever.”
