Father’s Day Murder

by Leslie Meier

  When she stepped through the doorway and onto a train platform she saw more signs hanging from the roof, indicating the way to the station. She had to go the entire length of the platform, a long way, and didn’t have much time to do it, so she quickened her pace, dodging and weaving around the people waiting for the train. Maybe it was late or something; it seemed as if the platform was awfully crowded.

  Then a headlight suddenly appeared, and people who had been dotted around the platform began moving toward the edge, maneuvering for position. Lucy felt like a salmon, swimming against the current. Everyone was coming one way and she had to go the other, hampered by her suitcase.

  “Excuse me, excuse me,” she said, attempting to sidestep a large lady with a shopping bag in each hand.

  The woman wouldn’t yield, but barreled toward her. Lucy leaned aside to avoid her and almost lost her balance, but caught herself. This was definitely not the place to slip, not with the train thundering into the station. Lucy tried to stay as far away from the edge of the platform as she could, but a woman with a stroller stepped into her path and she found herself stepping closer to the tracks. Then she was pushed—she felt two hands slam against her back—and found herself falling through the air. The train was roaring toward her and—ohmigod—she was going to be crushed to death.

  A crazy kaleidoscope of faces spun before her eyes: Bill, Toby, Elizabeth, Sara, Zoe, her mother and father, the dog. Then she felt a strong hand grip her arm and pull her back just as the train whipped past her face, inches away. It was so close she could smell the steel and taste the grit.

  “You ought to be more careful, lady; you almost got killed,” said a big guy in a Red Sox hat.

  Lucy couldn’t say anything. All she could feel was her heart thumping in her chest, louder even than the squeal of brakes as the train slowed and then stopped.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” declared the woman with the shopping bag. “That woman pushed her. I saw the whole thing.”

  A little crowd had gathered around them, and all eyes followed her pointing finger right to Carole Rose.

  Lucy gasped, recognizing her. Carole Rose, who she thought was her friend. Carole Rose, who’d complained to her about the way Pioneer Press had treated her father. Carole Rose, who’d complained that Luther was all business. Carole Rose, who’d looked at the painting of Lucretia in the museum and said she should have killed the man who raped her.

  Carole began to sidle backward, smiling apologetically, but her way was blocked by the crowd.

  “There’s some mistake,” she said, attempting to retreat, but the guy in the Red Sox hat clamped a hand on her shoulder.

  “Not so fast, lady. I think the cops are gonna want to talk to you.”

  A transit policeman was hurrying down the platform, talking into his radio as he came.

  Lucy faced Carole as if seeing her for the first time. So many reasons to hate Luther: her father’s injury in a press accident and his callous disregard afterward, her rejection when he turned his attention to another, her fear that she, like so many before her, would soon lose her job.

  “Luther got what he deserved,” said Carole, reaching ever so casually for the water bottle that was sticking out of her purse. She unscrewed the cap.

  “Why Morgan?”

  “She knew about me and Luther,” said Carole, shrugging and lifting the bottle to her lips.

  A bottle of clear fluid that was not water.

  “Stop her!” yelled Lucy. “Don’t let her drink it!”

  It was too late. The bottle slipped from Carole’s hands and she slumped against the man who had grabbed her arm. She sank to the stained and filthy concrete. Lucy knelt beside her, cradling her head as she gasped and struggled to breathe. When her blue-tinged lips twitched, she bent close to hear Carole’s last words.

  “Tell Daddy I love him,” she said, just before she died.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The single thing Lucy hated most about her job was calling survivors for quotes, and she could count on one hand the times she’d had to do it. She’d interviewed the mother of a college girl who’d been aboard one of the planes that crashed into the World Trade Center, the husband of a woman who had died while waiting for a liver transplant, and the father of a girl who had fallen asleep at the wheel after organizing an alcohol-free after-prom party. Each time she’d found the survivors grateful for her call and eager to talk, but she’d had great difficulty herself in controlling her emotions, spilling tears on the keyboard as she struggled to get every word exactly right.

  This time she didn’t have to make the call to Carole Rose’s father. That was Brad McAbee’s job. Lucy had called him at the Globe when she found herself stranded after the police finished taking her statement. They hadn’t exactly hurried about it, either. As Detective Sullivan had told her, they wanted to get it right, and that took time. It was past seven when they finally released her, and the last bus to Maine had left at four. The first bus in the morning wouldn’t get her home until noon, and she didn’t want to wait that long, not on Father’s Day. When she called home to tell Bill she’d been delayed “as a witness” he’d urged her to rent a car, but she’d dismissed the idea as too expensive, considering her maxed-out credit card. After racking her brain she’d finally come up with the idea of offering Brad her exclusive story in exchange for a lift on one of the newspaper delivery trucks.

  “So Junior’s off the hook?” he’d asked, waiting expectantly for her answer with his hands poised on the keyboard.

  “Absolutely,” said Lucy, who was sitting on a spare chair in his tiny cubicle in the Globe newsroom. The idea made her smile. Trevor would have his daddy home for Father’s Day.

  “It was Carole Rose,” continued Lucy. “She came prepared with the cyanide in a water bottle and was waiting for an opportunity. When she saw Luther coughing in the hallway outside the banquet she offered him the bottle, and he assumed it was water and drank it. He staggered into the men’s room and she slipped unnoticed into the banquet hall and took her seat.”

  Brad whistled. “Talk about cold blood—”

  “She had her reasons,” interrupted Lucy. “They’d been lovers. Luther had a reputation for being quite a ladies’ man, especially with women who worked for him. I guess these relationships were pretty intense at first, but when they cooled and it was awkward having them around, he fired them.” Lucy paused, remembering their conversation in the Gardner Museum. “She was getting on in years, frustrated with her job—she hadn’t been able to break out of features—and all of a sudden she’s making pillow talk with the boss. She must have been shattered when it all ended. Plus, there was her father….”

  “What’s he got to do with it?”

  “He was disabled in a press room accident years ago. Pioneer pressured him to accept a settlement, which seemed generous at the time but hasn’t turned out to be nearly enough to meet his needs. Everything’s a lot more expensive now than it was twenty years ago.

  “Carole tried to get Luther to increase it, but he refused, saying the company couldn’t afford it. She even went to a lawyer about going to court, but he said the settlement was binding and they were stuck with it. If they’d sued at the time, they would have made out much better.”

  “And Morgan figured this all out?”

  “Enough of it to make her suspicious,” said Lucy. “The cops found story notes in her computer at the Trib, along with a list of questions she planned to ask Carole.”

  “I can’t believe she met her alone in the parking lot….”

  “Carole was a woman, a colleague. Morgan didn’t think she posed a threat. She knew about the relationship with Luther, but I’m not sure she’d pegged her for the murderer. There were no signs of struggle, you know. Just her prints on the water bottle. Like Luther, she didn’t suspect a thing.”

  “But what about you? Why’d she want to kill you?”

  “I think she overheard me talking in the hotel lobby when we were in line to check
out; that’s when I learned about Luther’s relationships, and decided I might put two and two together. Besides, I think she panicked after she killed Morgan. She’d taken Morgan’s notebook—the cops found it in her bag—but I’m sure she was worried that there might be other notebooks and computer files. She’d screwed up and she knew it.” Lucy paused, thinking. “You know, I think she was worried about me right from the start. I won first place for investigative reporting, and I came from Tinker’s Cove; she would have expected me to pursue the story. Now that I think about it, she seemed to pop up an awful lot in unexpected places, almost as if she was keeping tabs on me. She made a point of going drinking with me after a panel. I ran into her at the Gardner Museum, even McDonald’s.” She gasped. “The earring! I actually found one of her earrings in my room, but I didn’t realize it at the time.” Lucy remembered finding her notebook open on her desk. “She searched my room; she must have.”

  Brad whistled. “I still can’t believe it. We were panelists together, you know, and she seemed so nice.”

  “She fooled me, too,” said Lucy, shaking her head. “Boy, did she have me fooled. I liked her, I really did, until she tried to push me under the train.” Her eyes fell on the telephone. “Are you going to call her father?”

  Brad grimaced. “Got to.”

  “Would you let me talk to him? I’ve got a message to deliver.”

  Later, while she was waiting for the truck to be loaded, she called Ted to fill him in on the new developments. She was also hoping he’d take pity on her after her near-death experience and tell her she needn’t come to work tomorrow.

  “Gosh, Lucy, I wish I could but I need you more than ever. I’ve got a tiger by the tail. You were right about Harold cooking the books at Pioneer Press. After I talked to Ames over at the bank he did some investigating, and it looks like some of the shareholders are going to take Pioneer to court. He thinks they’ve got a real good case.”

  Lucy couldn’t quite muster the enthusiasm to match Ted’s. “That’s a hell of a story,” she admitted, “but getting involved in a lawsuit is going to be awfully rough on Junior and Catherine, don’t you think? Especially after all they’ve been through.”

  “Well, I don’t know. They seem eager to do battle with Harold. And Inez, can’t forget her. You can’t blame them, really. They got hurt more than the others.”

  “I’m confused. Who’s suing who?”

  “Junior and Catherine and the bank and some of the other shareholders are all suing Harold, charging fraud and breach of trust and falsifying financial statements and failing to fulfill his responsibilities as chief financial officer and I don’t know what all. They’re also going after the accounting firm Inez worked for. It’s gonna be big. They’re talking millions.”

  “Wow,” said Lucy, digesting this information. “This could be a whole new start for Junior and Catherine. And Pioneer Press, too.”

  “That’s exactly what Junior said to me. A new start.” He paused. “And we’ve got it ahead of everybody. It’s a scoop, Lucy. And it all started with your investigating. I need your help on this. I’m counting on you. Don’t let me down.”

  Lucy was stunned. Ted was actually giving her credit. Credit she deserved. If she hadn’t seen Inez coming out of Armani and started poking around in the Boston Public Library, it might have been years before Harold’s dishonesty was discovered. Maybe never.

  “I’ll be there,” she promised.

  The sun was up and the birds were singing when the truck driver dropped Lucy off at the end of the driveway on Red Top Road around six o’clock in the morning. She stood there for a minute, looking at the house. It looked neat and trim as ever, the grass was cut, the pickup truck and the Subaru were parked side by side in the driveway. Her heart sank a bit when she noticed that the spot where Toby’s Jeep was usually parked was empty. She studied the house, looking for further clues about the family, but from outside the windows were blank and inscrutable. She couldn’t tell what was going on inside.

  The kitchen door was never locked, and she pushed it open with nary a squeak. Kudo recognized her immediately, rising from his mat in the kitchen and stretching before licking her hand and thumping his tail in polite doggy greeting.

  She opened the door and let him out, making sure to attach his leash to the sturdy cable run she noticed Bill had installed, then made a pot of coffee. Surprisingly enough, the kitchen was neat and clean. There were no dirty dishes in the sink, and the trash barrel was empty and had a fresh plastic liner. She peeked into the TV room and found it neat as a pin, with pillows lined up neatly on the sofa, magazines stacked on the coffee table, and newspapers in the basket in the corner. There wasn’t even a single sticky glass.

  She returned to the kitchen and was pouring herself a cup of coffee when Elizabeth appeared, fully dressed in shorts and a T-shirt.

  “What are you doing up so early?”

  “My new job,” she said, pouring herself a glass of juice.

  “Angela told me you weren’t working for them anymore. What happened?”

  “Well, remember how I told you I was learning interesting words in many languages from the other au pairs at the yacht club?”

  Lucy nodded.

  “So was Trevor.”

  Lucy couldn’t help smiling as she sat down at the table.

  “So what are you doing now?”

  “I’m back at the Queen Vic, and you know what? I actually like it. It turns out that making beds and cleaning toilets is a lot easier than chasing after a three-year-old all day. Plus, there are some interesting people working there.”

  “Interesting like with a tattoo?”

  Elizabeth almost choked on her juice.

  “What’ve you got, a spy plane or something? How do you know about Ernesto?”

  “Sue told me. Is it serious?”

  “I wish.” Elizabeth sighed. “But I think we’re just friends.” She put down her glass. “Mrs. McNaughton gave me a raise, but I’ve got to be there at seven so I can help with breakfast.”

  “Even today?” wailed Lucy. “What about Father’s Day?”

  “I’m going to have to miss Dad’s breakfast, but I’ve got a present for him. Sara’s got it. And I got all those groceries you wanted.” She stood up. “Gotta go, or I’ll be late.” She smiled—a rare, dazzling event. “It’s nice to have you home, Mom.”

  That was one hurdle that had been easier than she expected, thought Lucy, as she started frying up the bacon and sausages. She had been wise, she decided, not to mention the bikini. There’d be plenty of time for that later.

  “Mom’s home!” It was Zoe, eager to welcome her with hugs.

  Sara was more restrained, submitting awkwardly to Lucy’s hug and asking, “What did you bring me?”

  “First things first,” admonished Lucy. “We’ve got to get your father’s breakfast tray ready.”

  The girls produced a homemade place mat, woven from construction paper, and a paper napkin decorated in crayon with matching colors, which they arranged on the tray while Lucy scrambled the eggs.

  “Do you guys know where Toby is?” she asked, keeping her voice casual.

  “He’s probably asleep,” said Sara.

  “His car’s not in the driveway. Do you know what’s going on?”

  The two girls looked at each other, then shook their heads.

  Lucy had a sudden desire to down the Bloody Mary she was mixing for Bill. Her worst fears had come true. Bill had kicked Toby out of the house. Her son was homeless and jobless, beginning a downward spiral that would lead to drugs, jail, and death.

  “Mom?”

  Lucy looked down at Zoe’s worried face. She was overreacting. She didn’t know what had happened, and Toby was a sensible kid. She’d sort it out later. Right now it was time to concentrate on Bill’s special day. Even if she was furious with him.

  When they opened the door, Bill was asleep, or pretending to be. He rarely slept past six, and Lucy suspected he was playing possum fo
r Zoe’s benefit.

  “What’s all this?” he asked, blinking and rubbing his eyes.

  “It’s Father’s Day! We made you breakfast just the way you like it,” announced Zoe.

  Bill grinned at Lucy. “You’re home! I didn’t think you’d get in until later.”

  “I couldn’t miss Father’s Day,” she said, refusing to yield to the anxiety and anger that were threatening to explode in a torrent of tears. “I hitched a ride on a news truck. I came in with the morning edition.”

  “That’s the best present I could have,” he said, lifting his Bloody Mary in a toast. “Here’s to Mom—I wouldn’t be a father without her.”

  The girls giggled and ran out the room, returning with a pile of presents for Bill. Lucy settled herself on the bed beside him. His warmth was comforting, despite her mixed emotions.

  “This is from Elizabeth—she’s at work,” announced Sara, presenting him with a slim white envelope.

  “This is nice—dinner at the Queen Vic. For two.” He winked slyly. “Who shall I take?”

  “It had better be me,” said Lucy, handing him her package.

  Bob shook it. “I wonder what this could be?”

  “Open it and find out.”

  He did, expressing delight at the antique ruler she’d found on Charles Street.

  “Do you really like it? I got it in an antique shop.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s great. I love it.”

  “Now for our present,” said Sara. “Zoe and I made it together.”

  “You made it yourselves? That’s the best kind of present.”

  When Bill unwrapped the package he found a homemade scrapbook titled Bill Stone: The Best Father in the World.

  He sat for a minute, fingering the book and, Lucy suspected, wrestling with his emotions. Finally he opened to page one. It was an old snapshot of him taken in the hospital, dressed in disposable scrubs and a ridiculous cap, holding a tiny, red-faced, newborn baby Toby. Underneath, Zoe had carefully printed the words Bill Stone becomes a father for the first time.