by Leslie Meier
“How come they don’t cook vegetables anymore?” he grumbled, chasing a piece of carrot with his fork.
“They’re crisp-tender,” said Harriet. “That’s so they keep the vitamins.”
“Fit for goats, that’s what it is,” said Herb, shoving the vegetables aside and concentrating on his chicken. “And the portions are so small. There’s not enough food here to feed my two-year-old grandson.”
Lucy had no complaints about her dinner. Anything was fine with her as long as she didn’t have to cook it. She was thoroughly enjoying her chicken and rice pilaf and assorted spring vegetables.
The waiters had begun to clear away the entrees and were pouring coffee when Lucy noticed a flurry of activity at the Reads’ table. Luther was apparently having an allergic reaction of some kind. He was sneezing uncontrollably, coughing, and wiping his eyes. Harold handed him a handkerchief and he seemed better for a moment or two; then the sneezing and coughing started again. Aware that he was drawing attention, Luther covered his mouth and nose with the handkerchief and hurried out of the room, reaching into his jacket pocket as he went. He was obviously headed for the privacy of the men’s room, where he intended to treat himself with an inhaler or other allergy medication.
Lucy was just finishing her dessert—a thin wedge of very rich chocolate cake sitting in a pool of raspberry sauce—when a man stepped to the microphone in the front of the room and asked for silence. The program, he said, was going to begin in a few minutes, as soon as the waiters finished clearing.
Hearing this news, Junior got to his feet and left the hall, presumably in search of his father. It was only a moment or two later that he returned in some agitation.
“We need an ambulance,” Lucy heard him say to the man in charge of the program. “My father’s collapsed.”
Several people hurried out of the room, along with several members of the Read party, including Harold. Catherine, Monica, and Inez remained at the table with Syrjala, trying unsuccessfully not to look anxious.
People from the other tables, however, began drifting to the door, curious to see what was going on. That brought the emcee back to the microphone.
“Please stay in your seats,” he said. “We’re going to start the program with a short film, a biography of Luther Read.”
Before the film could be started, however, the rumors began to spread from table to table. Luther Read was dead of a drug overdose. Luther Read had suffered a heart attack and was at this very moment being rushed to Boston Medical in critical condition. No, it was Mass General, and it wasn’t a heart attack, it was a stroke, and he was completely paralyzed on his left side.
As the rumors swirled around them, Monica sat quietly, clutching Inez’s hand. Sam Syrjala polished off his drink and signaled the waiter for another, then leaned toward Inez and began bending her ear. Catherine looked miserable and very alone with her father’s and Junior’s empty chairs on either side of her. Then Junior returned, looking very serious, and the room fell silent. Everyone watched as he hurried to the table. There, he bent down to Monica and shook his head from side to side sadly.
Lucy couldn’t hear a word, but the little drama was as clear to her as if it had been onstage or in the movies. Monica’s shocked expression as she struggled with the awful news; Junior’s stricken yet controlled expression as he did what had to be done. He and Inez were leading Monica from the room when she suddenly halted, shaking her head.
“That’s impossible,” she was heard to say. “I gave him a fresh inhaler this morning. I saw him use it. It worked just fine this morning.”
Then they were joined by Harold and Sam, who hustled them out the door, followed by Catherine. The lights were turned off and the film began to roll. It was eerie, thought Lucy, watching the images of Luther Read flicking across the screen. Maybe he was dead or maybe he was fighting for his life, but in the darkened room he was an enormous, living presence.
Then the film ended. The final image of Luther Read’s smiling face had hardly faded when the announcement came.
“Luther Read, our Newspaperman of the Year, is dead.”
That was incredible enough, but an even more shocking announcement followed.
“Remain in your seats, please, as the police will be collecting information from everyone.”
Chapter Seven
Tuesday morning, when Lucy awoke in her light-filled room, there was a brief moment when she felt relaxed and refreshed, as if everything were right with the world. Then, as if a dark cloud had covered the sun, she remembered that something was very wrong indeed. Luther Read had been murdered and there was little doubt that the murderer was someone very close to him.
She glanced at the clock and stumbled into the bathroom, astonished to see it was well past nine. At home she was always up well before six and even on weekends rarely managed to sleep in past seven. Of course, she remembered as she groped for her toothbrush, she hadn’t gotten to bed until after two this morning. The police had worked their way methodically through the banquet room, saving those seated near the Reads’ table for last.
Not that anyone at her table had been able to tell Detective Paul Sullivan of the Boston Police Department very much.
“The Reads seemed happy enough,” volunteered Herb. “And why wouldn’t they? They’ve got it all: money, prestige, and power.”
“It was a celebration,” offered Harriet. “Luther was being honored as Newspaperman of the Year. The whole family seemed to be enjoying themselves.”
“No signs of discord? Nothing at all?” persisted Sullivan.
He was a stocky fellow in his early thirties, dressed casually in a polo shirt and khaki pants, who looked as if he took fitness seriously and worked out regularly. He also had a frank, pleasant face and reacted enthusiastically to every bit of information, almost as if it were a gift.
Lucy struggled with her conscience, debating whether she should tell the detective what she had seen before the banquet. It wasn’t her business to tell, she felt. True, she had witnessed a disagreement, but family members often argued, and it was difficult for an outsider to understand what was really going on, especially one who simply blundered into a private gathering. She certainly wouldn’t want some passerby who happened upon a squabble like Bill and Toby’s fight over the shed tattling about her family. Plus, she had a reporter’s instinct to hoard information in hopes of eventually developing a well-balanced—and exclusive—story.
“You were only sitting a few feet from the victim,” said the detective, looking each of them in the eye in turn. “What did you see?”
His eyes moved from Ted to the New Hampshire couple, whom Lucy knew now as Arthur and Mildred, to the man with eyeglasses, Jim Prince, and his two younger colleagues, Kevin and Steve. The heavyset, glum Sylvia simpered flirtatiously when he turned to her, and Harriet gave him a motherly smile. Herb crossed his arms defensively across his chest and harrumphed. Then it was Lucy’s turn to squirm uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze.
“I don’t think this means anything at all,” she began, “but I opened the wrong door, looking for the banquet. The Reads were having some sort of private cocktail party.”
“Figures,” fumed Herb. “Too good to mingle with the hoi polloi on the mezzanine like everybody else.”
“Shhh,” hissed Harriet.
“Did something happen at this party?” asked Sullivan.
“I don’t think you should attach too much importance to it,” said Lucy, thinking once again of Bill’s harsh words to Toby just before she left home. “Family members say things they don’t mean.”
“I understand that,” said Sullivan. “Why don’t you tell me what you heard and let me decide if it’s important or not.”
Everyone at the table was looking at Lucy.
“I don’t remember exactly, but Junior and Luther were arguing. Junior’s voice was angry, and Luther said something about pouring his lifeblood into the company for forty years. Something like that. That’s all I reme
mber.”
“That fits in with what I heard,” said Jim, shoving his glasses back up his nose. “I heard that Luther changed his mind, and the sale to National Media is off.”
“Well, he was a fool if he decided not to sell,” said Herb. “There’ll never get another offer like this one. Now’s the time to sell. The newspaper business is going to the dogs.”
“You’re right about that,” said Arthur. “But Luther never was much of a businessman. His focus was always on the news side of things.”
“Give me a break,” said Jim. “If you ask me, Pioneer Press is strictly amateur hour. It’s one crusade after another. They have no idea what balanced, fair reporting means.”
Kevin and Steve nodded their agreement, much to Lucy’s surprise. Until now she had thought everyone admired Luther.
The detective also looked puzzled. “Wasn’t this guy Newspaperman of the Year?”
“He’s been campaigning for it for years,” said Sylvia, rolling her eyes and leaning heavily on the table. “The hospitality suite. The committees. The giveaways.”
“She’s right,” said Ted. “Newspaperman of the Year isn’t like the Pulitzer prize, which is awarded for excellence in journalism. It’s more of a reward for helping the organization, the Northeast Newspaper Association. It’s kind of a payback for going to a lot of meetings, stuff like that.”
“Luther should have gotten it a few years ago, when he was NNA president,” said Arthur, “but he made people so mad when he claimed thousands of dollars in expenses that they gave it to somebody else. Hildebrand, I think.”
“No, it was Halvorsen,” said Mildred, correcting her husband.
“The very next year he started the hospitality suite. I remember that well enough.” Arthur smiled. “Free food and booze. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I mean, you have to understand the nature of the newspaper business to appreciate it. Strictly low budget. Until Luther you were lucky to get a free pen at this shindig.”
“It worked,” said Mildred. “Just like the unpopular kid who brings cupcakes for the whole class and gets elected to the student council.”
“The papers still suck,” said Jim. “Especially the Northampton News. It’s nothing but a mouthpiece for alternative lifestyles. What a rag.”
“Gay rights,” said Kevin.
“Civil unions,” added Steve.
“At least it’s a liberal viewpoint,” countered Sylvia. “If you ask me, the Republican is a lot worse. Harold’s practically nominated Ronald Reagan for sainthood.”
“I don’t think Reagan is even Catholic,” said Mildred, looking worried.
“I was just making a point,” said Sylvia.
“Don’t worry, dear,” said Arthur, patting his wife’s hand. “Eleanor will make sure Saint Peter doesn’t let him in.”
“I think we’re getting off the track here,” said Sullivan, consulting his notebook. “There was apparently some sort of disagreement between Luther and his son, Junior, just before the banquet. Did any of you notice anything like that during the banquet?”
“He came in here like he was the Duke of Earl or something,” said Herb with a snort. “People were falling all over themselves to greet him.”
Lucy nodded, remembering. She wondered how much of the enthusiastic welcome Luther had received had been genuine. Were people truly happy to congratulate him or had they merely been going through the motions, caught up in the moment?
“Luther and Junior both greeted me,” said Ted. “There didn’t seem to be any tension between them that I noticed.”
“Me, either,” said Herb.
“Everyone seemed to be behaving,” said Harriet. “Even Sam Syrjala.”
“Sam Syrjala?” asked the detective, writing the name down. “Who’s he? Is he usually a problem?”
Sylvia snorted. “You could say that. He’s the editor, and I mean that in the loosest possible sense, of Pioneer’s Hartford paper, the Gazette.”
“Sam has a bit of a drinking problem,” said Mildred.
“He’s a lush,” said Jim.
“He’s a member of the family?” asked Sullivan.
“Practically,” said Arthur. “He and Harold are old buddies.”
The detective made another note, then looked up. “Okay, the Read party make their entrance, they greet people, then they sit down. They’re at the next table. Did you notice anything unusual?”
“Everything was fine until he started sneezing,” said Lucy. “I thought it was some sort of allergic attack that was triggering an asthmatic reaction—my daughter has asthma, so I know the symptoms. It seemed like he was trying to downplay it, kind of denying it was happening, which is what people tend to do in that situation, especially if they’re in public. The coughing and wheezing got worse and he finally left the room, holding a handkerchief over his face. I figured he was going out to take his medicine. Once you take it, it’s very quick-acting.”
“Luther left the room by himself?”
Ted and several others nodded.
“Junior eventually followed him out of the room, and when he came back he said his father had collapsed.” Lucy’s voice broke, as she remembered Junior’s expression, outwardly calm and collected but betrayed by his eyes, which darted around the room frantically seeking help. “I guess the inhaler didn’t work.”
“I heard Monica Underwood say something about giving him a fresh one that morning,” said Mildred. “It must have been defective.”
“Or somebody made sure it didn’t work,” said Jim. “Somebody who had a lot to lose if Luther got his way and the sale didn’t go through.”
“There’s no need to jump to conclusions,” cautioned Sullivan. “I’m just looking for facts, folks.”
By then Lucy was exhausted, but the questioning had gone on for hours, covering every detail, until they were all bleary-eyed. And although the police were eager to gather every bit of information they could, they were not willing to share it, especially with these assembled members of the press. In fact, frequent warnings were issued that the investigation was in its early stages and all information was privileged and confidential. Any leaks would be prosecuted as impeding an investigation. The hundreds of journalists at the convention, who had witnessed one of the biggest news stories of the year, were unable to report on it.
Hearing her phone ring, Lucy hurried out of the bathroom to answer it. It was Ted.
“Lucy, I’ve got a little job for you. Phyllis is going to call tradespeople and neighbors in town and get quotes about Luther Read and e-mail them to me here. But I need you to work them into a story. A kind of remembrance piece. I figured you could do it at lunchtime.”
“Aren’t we under some sort of gag order?”
“This is America, remember. There’s such a thing as the First Amendment.”
“There’s also something called ‘contempt of court’ and ‘impeding an official investigation,’” retorted Lucy, who’d often been threatened with those very terms by police in the course of investigating local crimes in Tinker’s Cove.
“We’re not going to write about the banquet or anything like that,” said Ted. “Just a straight obit and this little bit of local reaction. I’ll expect you at my room around noon.”
Lucy was still figuring out what to wear when the phone rang again.
“Yeah,” she said, figuring it was Ted.
“I guess you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” responded Phyllis.
“Sorry. I thought you were Ted.”
“I’m innocent on that score, but I do have some bad news for you.”
Lucy sat down on the edge of the bed, half-in and half-out of her shirt, expecting the worst. The house had burned down with the whole family trapped inside. Bill had strangled Toby. Toby had strangled Bill. Elizabeth had totaled the Subaru and was on life support: doctors were hovering, waiting to claim her organs for transplant surgery.
“Mrs. Pratt called and asked me to tell you that Kudo got into her c
hicken run again.”
Relief flooded Lucy. “Is that all?”
“She says she’s had it and she’s going to call the animal-control officer.”
“Did you tell her I’d pay damages?”
“Of course. But she says a couple of dollars per chicken doesn’t compensate for all the trouble she went to raise them, not to mention the eggs she’s not getting.”
“She’s right. I don’t blame her a bit.” Lucy sighed. “The kids are so irresponsible. The dog’s supposed to be in the house or on his run, but they let him loose.”
“I’m just passing along the message. Do you want her phone number?”
“Sure.” Lucy jotted it down. “How’s it going with the quotes?”
“I’ll get right on it,” promised Phyllis.
Lucy had the beginnings of a headache when she hung up. She never should have agreed to come to the convention. She missed her family; she even missed Phyllis. And she had a bad feeling about the situation at home. The dog was running wild; what else was going on? Why had Bill been so evasive when they talked on the phone last night?
The headache was full-blown when she got down to the coffee shop, intending to buy something to take along to the morning workshop, since she was running late. The mere sight of the doughnuts ranged behind the counter and the greasy smell of eggs and sausage made her queasy, so she settled for a cup of black coffee and the morning papers.
The city’s two dailies were not members of the NNA, which was comprised of smaller, regional papers, and hadn’t been represented at the convention. They were free to give Luther Read’s death front-page coverage.
But they hadn’t, she discovered, as she quickly flipped through the papers while waiting in line to pay. The tabloid Herald had devoted its front page to a corrupt city official, and the Globe had placed the story inside, on the Metro section front. Murder was apparently too commonplace in the big city to attract much notice.