Father’s Day Murder

by Leslie Meier

Lucy smiled sympathetically. “That bad?”

  Carole shook her head and pulled out her cigarettes, then realized the shop didn’t allow smoking.

  “Damn.” She fingered the cigarette, then held it to her nose and inhaled deeply before replacing it in the pack. “I’m such a fool. I really thought I had something going with this guy. I mean, we were together for years. Then one day he meets somebody else and it’s all over. Bye-bye. Adios. Sayonara, baby.”

  “That stinks.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You’ll find somebody else.”

  “At my age? With my responsibilities?”

  “Do you have kids?” Lucy was surprised.

  “No. It’s my dad. He was injured in a pressroom accident and needs a lot of care.” Carole drained her coffee cup and set it down with a click. “Very expensive care.”

  “Doesn’t he get disability benefits?”

  “Oh, sure. The lawyers and human resources people were at his bedside the minute he was out of surgery with a big, fat offer. He was only too happy to take it, but it turned out to be a lot less than he needed.”

  “And he signed away any future claims?”

  “How’d you guess? It was a condition of receiving the money.”

  “Who did he work for?”

  “Pioneer Press.”

  Lucy nodded. She was beginning to understand why the Read family wasn’t very popular with the employees at Pioneer Press. Not that they were any different from management at many companies these days.

  “It’s pretty late,” Carole finally said. “I’d better go.”

  Lucy lingered at the table for a few minutes to finish her coffee. When she entered the hotel lobby her hand was immediately grasped and shaken energetically by a round-faced man sporting a Shrubsole for Senate button on the lapel of his rather tight suit jacket.

  “I’m Dick Shrubsole, and I’m running for the U.S. Senate from Vermont. I’m going to be here in the hotel all day, and my press secretary here will be glad to sign you up for an interview.”

  He indicated a tiny, very serious-looking woman who was clutching a clipboard.

  “I have openings at one, two, and three-fifteen,” she offered, peering hopefully through her horn-rimmed glasses.

  “I’m from Maine,” said Lucy. “I don’t think you want to waste any of that precious time on me.”

  “Mr. Shrubsole is attracting a lot of interest nationwide,” said the girl, blinking rapidly. “They’re filling up fast,” she said, “but right now I can probably squeeze you in whenever you’d like.”

  Lucy suspected he wasn’t generating quite as much interest among the journalists at the convention as he hoped, but she was intrigued by the opportunity to interview the challenger for Monica Underwood’s seat in the Senate.

  “When did you say those openings were?” she asked.

  She was reaching for her day planner when Ted appeared at her side and steered her toward the stairs.

  “We’ll get back to you,” he called over his shoulder, but Shrubsole and his companion had already cornered a couple of other NNA conferees, clearly identifiable by their badges.

  “What’s going on?” asked Lucy. “That might’ve been interesting.”

  “Trust me, he’s not gonna tell you anything he doesn’t say at the publishers’ breakfast this morning. It’ll be a waste of time. All he wants is a puff piece, anyway.” He stopped and turned, fixing a beady eye on Shrubsole. “I’m no fan of Monica Underwood’s, believe me, but this is in really bad taste.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Traditionally, all the regional candidates for the fall elections are invited to the breakfast. It’s a chance to meet and greet the publishers and shmooze over some Nova salmon and eggs Benedict. It’s usually pretty interesting.”

  “So Shrubsole’s here for the breakfast and he’s making himself available for interviews. What’s the matter with that?”

  “It’s taking advantage, because Monica Underwood had to cancel. She can’t be doing any campaigning while she’s supposed to be in mourning, can she?”

  “Oohh,” drawled Lucy, as the light dawned. “What a weasel.”

  Ted shrugged. “He’s a politician. That’s the way they are. But we don’t have to let them get away with it.”

  Lucy noticed they were blocking the stairway and stepped aside to allow a group of conferees to descend to the downstairs meeting room. “I guess I’d better get going. I don’t want to miss anything,” she said.

  Ted nodded his approval. “What’s the topic this morning?”

  “All your secrets will be revealed,” said Lucy. “It’s the ‘Editors’ Roundtable: What Do Editors Really Want?’”

  “Don’t let me keep you,” said Ted. “I’ll expect a full report later.”

  Lucy waggled her fingers in a little wave as she started down the stairs. She was pretty sure she knew what Ted wanted—interesting stories and lots of them—but she thought it would be advantageous to discover if his requirements were industry-wide standards or merely quirks. Was it really a universal rule that you couldn’t begin a story with a name, for example? And what about his insistence on including ages? Lucy didn’t see that it mattered, and the people she interviewed often resented it.

  She was surprised when she took her seat and noticed Jim Prince was one of the panelists. She remembered him from the banquet as rather brash and outspoken. He seemed an odd choice, considering his fellow panelists: two tiny, wizened ladies with their hair twisted into tight buns and wearing identical blouses with Peter Pan collars.

  “Let’s get started,” said Jim, fixing his eyes on a group engaged in a noisy conversation in the back of the room.

  They quieted down immediately.

  “As most of you know, I’m the editor-in-chief of the New Bedford Standard Times.”

  Lucy knew that New Bedford was a gritty old industrial city in Massachusetts that had fallen on hard times when fishing declined and manufacturers abandoned the city’s old brick mills in search of cheaper labor in Mexico and Asia. No wonder Prince was such a tough guy, she thought as he introduced his fellow panelists.

  “Ada Crabtree is a journalism professor at my alma mater, Boston University, where she is the adviser to the student paper. Her sister, Amanda, is editor of the highly regarded, indeed legendary Nantucket Gam, a paper that includes the White House and numerous members of Congress on its subscription list.”

  One of the ladies, the one with the circle pin placed front and center between the two edges of her collar, gave a tiny nod. “Thank you so much for that extremely kind introduction, Jim,” she said. “Of course, I always knew you’d go far in the newspaper business.”

  Lucy was amused to see him grow a little red around the collar.

  “I wouldn’t be quite so proud, if I were you, Ada,” Amanda sniffed. “Sometimes Mr. Prince stoops a bit low. I fear he meets his readers on their own level, when he ought to strive to raise them to a higher understanding of the issues.”

  “Not all of us have the sort of readership you do, dear Amanda,” replied Ada. “New Bedford is hardly Nantucket, even if they were both whaling ports in the nineteenth century.”

  “Then, of course, there was that awful business with the Borden woman,” admitted Amanda. “The city has never been the same since.”

  “That was Fall River,” said Jim. “Lizzie Borden lived in Fall River.”

  “I’m quite sure you’re mistaken,” insisted Amanda.

  “On the contrary,” snapped Ada. “I’m sure we can rely on Jim’s knowledge of the history of New Bedford.”

  “Shall we get started?” he said, clearing his throat. “I suggest we start with assigned stories and, if we have time, move on to enterprise reporting.”

  Lucy opened her notebook, but as the morning wore on she made very few notes. Jim, she soon learned, was an overbearing editor who kept his reporters on a tight leash. The Crabtree sisters didn’t live up to their star billing, eithe
r. As editors they encouraged solid reporting and welcomed diverse points of view, but their real passion was grammar. Over the years they’d developed a few pet peeves, and they were determined to use the panel to express their views on the sloppy use of semicolons, the inappropriate use of adjectives, and what Ada termed a deplorable tendency to unnecessary capitalization.

  Lucy found her mind wandering, back to her own girls in Tinker’s Cove. She’d always assumed they would stop squabbling as they grew older, but the example of the Crabtree sisters wasn’t encouraging. Ada and Amanda were well into their sixties and they were still bickering with each other.

  As an only child, Lucy had always envied her friends who had brothers and sisters. Her parents saw themselves as partners in an ongoing love story, and she had often felt excluded from the affection they showered on each other. What she hadn’t realized, however, was the level of competition between brothers and sisters for their parents’ attention. Her parents hadn’t had much attention to spare, but what little there was had been all hers. She hadn’t had to share it.

  Lucy wondered about Catherine’s role in the Read family. She was more successful than Junior, but that didn’t seem to impress her father. Luther seemed to save all his affection for Junior, choosing him as his heir over Catherine. That would have been hard enough to bear, but Lucy suspected that Luther’s affection for Monica might have been a worse blow to Catherine.

  After all, recalled Lucy, Lizzie Borden supposedly reached for that ax because she didn’t get along with her stepmother. Maybe Catherine didn’t get along with Monica; maybe she resented her arrival on the scene. Maybe instead of giving her father forty whacks she’d handed him an empty inhaler. Lucy didn’t like thinking of Catherine as the murderer, but she had to admit it was a possibility. She had the means; she had opportunity and perhaps a motive.

  It was becoming clear even to the Crabtree sisters that they were losing their audience, so it came as a relief to everyone in the room when Jim announced a brief break. Lucy got up to stretch and headed for the ladies’ room. There was a line, so she decided to go up to her room, and when she got there she saw that she had a phone message. She sat for a minute, staring at the rosy little message light. An emergency at home? Probably. Fearing the worst, she pushed the button.

  To her surprise, she heard Monica Underwood’s smooth, well-modulated voice.

  “This is Monica Underwood. I believe we met on Sunday night, in happier times. I would appreciate it if you’d give me a call, Lucy.”

  Lucy copied down the number and dialed, quickly, before she had a chance to change her mind. She never knew what to say to someone who was grieving anyway, and she was intimidated by Monica’s position as a senator. If she waited, she knew she’d never make the call.

  Monica herself answered the phone.

  “I got your message,” began Lucy.

  “Thank you so much for getting back to me so promptly,” cooed Monica, who apparently knew the Rule of Twelve: Your first twelve words should always include a thank-you.

  “You’re very welcome,” replied Lucy. “I’m sorry for your loss. Luther was a wonderful man and will be greatly missed.”

  “A great voice has been silenced,” said Monica. “A staunch advocate for the free exchange of ideas and a champion of First Amendment rights.”

  Lucy found herself questioning Monica’s motive for calling her. “Is there something I can do for you?” she asked.

  “I’m so glad you asked,” began Monica. “My contacts have told me that Dick Shrubsole is at the conference for the publishers’ breakfast. Is that true?”

  “I saw him myself this morning,” said Lucy.

  “Are you aware, Lucy, that there is a vast right-wing conspiracy in this country that is trying to do away with our most precious freedoms?”

  “I have heard that suggestion before,” said Lucy, hedging.

  “Well, then you’ll understand that what I am about to tell you is not motivated by any personal considerations whatsoever, but only by my great love for my country.”

  “Okay.” Lucy could hardly wait to hear what she had to say.

  “When we met on Sunday night, I believe Luther introduced you as a top-notch investigative reporter. He had great regard for you. That’s why I’ve decided to call you with this information.”

  “I appreciate your faith in me.”

  “I do have faith in you, Lucy. I have every confidence that you will use this information appropriately. There can be no indication that you got this information from me, do you understand?”

  “I’ll consider it off the record,” said Lucy. “I’m listening.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about who might have had a motive to kill Luther, and one name keeps popping up. I thought perhaps you could investigate. It would be a big story.”

  “Who is it?” Lucy had a feeling she knew the answer.

  “Dick Shrubsole, that’s who.”

  “As part of this right-wing conspiracy?”

  “I see we’re on the same wavelength here.”

  Same planet, yes. Same wavelength? Lucy didn’t think so.

  “Well, thanks for the information,” said Lucy. “I really have to go.”

  “But you will follow up on this?”

  “Sure,” said Lucy, crumpling up the piece of notepaper and tossing it in the wastebasket. “I’m filing it away for future reference.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Coming to the conference had definitely been a mistake, thought Lucy. She had expected an inspiring exchange of ideas, challenging seminars, and an opportunity to grow professionally, but instead she was discovering the seamy side of human nature. She couldn’t believe Monica Underwood, a woman she had admired for years, would behave like this. Completely disillusioned, Lucy sat on her bed.

  She would have been better off staying home, where she belonged. She wasn’t honing her skills, she wasn’t getting much out of these sorry excuses for panels at all. Instead of wasting her time here she could be home in Tinker’s Cove, covering local news and, most important, taking care of her family. Keeping Toby out of trouble. Making sure the girls stayed on schedule, getting them to school and activities on time. Attending the awards ceremony.

  Now poor Zoe wasn’t going to get her perfect-attendance award, and it was her fault for going to the conference. And instead of giving Elizabeth the support she needed in a job that had suddenly become extremely challenging, she had left her to manage completely on her own. It wasn’t fair. Instead of simply providing child care for a typical three-year-old, Elizabeth was in the middle of a family tragedy.

  Lucy wanted to go home, but she knew it wasn’t an option. The Trask Foundation expected a report on how the grant money had been spent, and Ted could hardly tell them the recipient had quit the conference early because she was homesick. Lucy knew she had to stick it out, but she was darned if she was going back to that “Editors’ Roundtable” to listen to those two old maids natter on about dangling participles, whatever those were. She needed a break, something distracting, and she knew where to get it. She’d always heard about the fabulous bargains at Filene’s Basement, and here she was in Boston. It was the perfect opportunity.

  The doorman’s directions were simple enough: walk around the Common toward the statehouse, easily identifiable by its gold dome, cross Tremont Street at the traffic light by the Park Street T stop, and walk down Temple Street to Filene’s.

  The walk took only a few minutes, and Lucy found herself in the Downtown Crossing shopping area, where the streets were closed to automobile traffic and pedestrians could wander easily among the stores and peddler’s carts. There was even an outdoor café, and a group of colorfully garbed Andean musicians were playing flute music.

  Filene’s was an enormous department store that took up an entire block. Lucy entered through the nearest door and found herself in the men’s department; from the prices she knew this was definitely not the basement. A clerk directed her to the escalator
and she descended to the fabled bargain hunter’s paradise.

  A rather dingy paradise, she discovered, that was strictly a bare-bones operation. No attempt had been made to pretty things up. Clothes and shoes and handbags were piled in battered wooden bins beneath hand-lettered signs announcing the price-reduction policy: after an item had been on the floor for two weeks it was reduced by 25 percent, after three weeks the discount increased to 50 percent, and an item that lingered for four weeks was reduced in price by 75 percent. After that, it was donated to charity.

  From the way the shoppers were pawing through the merchandise, checking the price tags for dates, Lucy suspected a four-week reduction was extremely rare. She had never seen such determined shoppers. Mostly women, they were intent on bargains and didn’t bother to waste time in the dressing room, preferring instead to try things on in the aisles. And no wonder, she realized as she made her way to the children’s department; much of the merchandise was from top designers. There was even, she was surprised to see, a fur department. This was off-price shopping on a whole new scale, she decided, resolving to tell her friend Sue Finch, an inveterate shopper, all about it.

  On impulse, she pulled her cell phone from her bag and dialed the familiar number.

  “You’ll never guess where I am,” she crowed.

  “I know you’re in Boston,” began Sue.

  “Filene’s Basement!”

  “Tell me all about it. What have you bought?”

  “Nothing yet. But it’s wonderful. They have furs and designer handbags and”—Lucy’s eyes fell on the sign for the shoe department—“oh, my God, shoes!”

  “What kind of shoes?”

  “I’m not sure.” Lucy wound her way past the racks of toiletries and socks. “I’m on my way. I’m almost there.” She stopped at a rack and picked up a pair of strappy, high-heeled pink sandals. “Manolo Blahnik. I’ve heard of those. These are Ferragamos. And these”—she picked up a pair of red flats—“these are called Mootsie Tootsies.”

  “Those Manolo Blahniks sound like they’re straight out of Vogue magazine. I hope you’re trying them on.”