by Leslie Meier
“I’m surprised the cops knew what a pica pole is,” said Lucy. The poles, specialized rulers used to measure column length, were rarely used anymore, now that newspaper pages were designed on computers.
“They didn’t,” said Morgan. “But they had some interesting ideas.”
Lucy chuckled, thinking ruefully that if they were on real bicycles, Morgan would be miles ahead of her by now. “Did they say what Junior’s motive was?”
“I wondered the same thing,” said Morgan. “I called some of my contacts but they told me they’re still developing the case.”
Lucy was beginning to doubt that Morgan had a future at the Globe. Not if she couldn’t tell when the police were stonewalling.
“This place where the cops hang out, is it around here?” asked Lucy, dismounting from her bike and leaning casually against it.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” said Morgan, pedaling even harder than before.
“Maybe we can work out something,” said Lucy, in a speculative tone. “I can give you some background on the Read family—they have a summer place in my town—and you can help me develop some police contacts.”
Morgan slowed her pace. “Two prizewinning reporters. We’d make a pretty good team. Let me think about it, okay?”
“Sure,” said Lucy. “You know where to find me.”
She started to leave, then paused, wondering why Morgan was staying at the hotel. The gym was open only to guests, she knew, but Morgan worked for a suburban paper. If she lived nearby, her paper would hardly provide hotel accommodations.
“Are you staying here at the Park Plaza?” she asked.
“No.” Morgan shook her head. “My boss is a real cheapskate. I’m driving to Riverside and taking the T in every day.”
“So how’d you get in the gym?’
“I just signed in. Nobody checks.”
“They might. What room did you put down?”
“Yours. I figured it’s probably big enough for two. Right?’
“Wrong,” said Lucy, laughing. “It’s hardly big enough for me.”
When Lucy opened the door to her room, she didn’t mind its modest size at all. The best part of staying in a hotel, she decided, was leaving the unmade bed and dirty towels and coming back to find everything fresh and neat. Except, of course, for the little pile of dirty clothes she’d left on the floor. She flopped down on the smooth comforter, the one she hadn’t had to wrestle into submission that morning, and kicked off her sneakers, enjoying the fact that all she had to do was take a shower and find herself some supper.
She hauled herself to her feet, intending to take a nice, long shower, since the hot water never seemed to run out at the hotel, unlike at home. She was passing the desk when something caught her eye. It was her notebook, flipped open.
Lucy stopped in her tracks. Why was her notebook open? She hadn’t taken it out of her bag. Or had she? She stood in place, trying to remember her actions when she’d called the Read house to talk to Angela. She’d sat on the bed. She remembered that much. But had she taken her notebook out and then, when she hadn’t been able to speak to Angela, put it on the desk? She didn’t think so. She didn’t remember doing it.
Of course, these days she often forgot things. Some mornings she couldn’t remember if she’d brushed her teeth or taken her vitamin. The drive to work passed in a blur; she could rarely remember if the traffic light on Main Street had been green or red. And then there were those restless reading glasses—they seemingly wandered about the house of their own accord, turning up in the most unlikely places. So it was entirely possible she had put the notebook on the desk and forgotten all about it.
Considering the matter, Lucy decided she’d prefer it that way, because the alternative was that someone had entered her room while she was out and had rifled through her belongings. Who would do that? And why? The only explanation she could come up with was that someone with a guilty conscience—Luther’s murderer?—had pegged her as a skilled investigative reporter, probably because she’d won first prize. But that was ridiculous. Lucy had no illusions about her abilities in that regard. Getting a story depended upon luck as much as anything, and she sure wasn’t feeling lucky these days.
She decided to put it out of her mind and take that shower. But before she went in the bathroom, she made sure the lock was bolted and the safety chain was securely fastened.
Chapter Twelve
Things always looked brighter after a good night’s sleep. It was true, Lucy decided when she woke on Wednesday morning. Nothing had changed overnight except for her mood. She felt refreshed and ready to face whatever the day brought. Take Toby, for example. He was a decent kid at heart. No doubt he’d learn from his mistakes. And Kudo. She’d covered plenty of dog hearings and she was confident that if she came prepared with proof that Kudo was now housed in a proper kennel, with a fenced run, the selectmen would be satisfied and wouldn’t take action against the dog.
Energized by these encouraging thoughts, Lucy leaped from bed and stretched, then threw open the drapes, revealing the dreary view. Not so dreary after all; sunlight was angling down, bathing part of the brick wall in a golden glow. It was going to be a good day, she decided, practicing the power of positive thinking.
She was still humming with optimism when she entered the coffee shop and ran smack-dab into the last person she’d expected to see. It was Catherine Read, looking crisp and professional as ever. Lucy knew it was wrong to judge people and that everyone reacted differently to death, but she would have expected Catherine to be in seclusion with her family. Unless, of course, some decision had been made to get out in public to show the family had confidence in Junior’s innocence. Whatever it was, it was darned awkward.
“Hi,” she said, getting in line behind Catherine. It would be rude not to acknowledge the woman, after all.
“Hi, Lucy,” replied Catherine, managing a small, tight smile.
“I’m so sorry about your father.” Lucy didn’t know what else to say. “And your brother.”
“You know,” said Catherine, handing over a couple of dollars and accepting a cardboard cup and a grossly oversize muffin, “I don’t think I’ve absorbed it yet.”
She waited for Lucy and they sat down together at a table. Lucy eyed her muffin skeptically. “They say it’s blueberry, but these seem more like little bits of blue gum or something.”
“Not like the blueberries that grow wild in Tinker’s Cove,” said Catherine. “Gosh, I’d love to be there now.”
“This must be awful for you.”
“It’s bad enough losing Dad in a tragic accident, but now that they’ve arrested Junior…” She paused and plucked a piece of muffin, keeping her head down. “It’s ridiculous, of course. The whole family is behind him one hundred percent, and we’ve got the lawyers on it. We’re hoping he can get the charges dropped so he won’t have to go to trial.”
“Can I quote you on that?” asked Lucy. “I tried to reach Angela last night but she wasn’t home.”
“You just missed her. She was here last night, kicking up a huge fuss and calling lawyers and anybody else she could think of, including Ted Kennedy, but I’m happy to say she left for Tinker’s Cove first thing this morning.”
“Does she have a cell phone?” inquired Lucy.
“Do me a favor,” said Catherine, leaning toward Lucy. “Don’t bother Angela. She’s having a difficult time right now. I’ll be happy to give you a statement on behalf of the family.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Lucy, pulling out her notebook.
Catherine took a moment to collect her thoughts, then spoke slowly so Lucy could get it all down. “My entire family believes the Boston Police Department has made a terrible mistake in arresting my brother and charging him with murdering his father. We know Junior is innocent and we’re confident that he will eventually be exonerated, but these accusations have caused our family a great deal of additional sorrow.” She paused. “How’s that?”
“Not too strong?”
“Not at all.” Lucy chewed her muffin. “They were awfully quick to arrest him. Do you know why?”
Catherine blinked rapidly, as if considering how to react. “This is off the record, but in my opinion it’s absolutely ridiculous!” she finally exclaimed indignantly. “Talk about a rush to judgment!”
Catherine had reduced her muffin to a pile of crumbs and was picking up one bit and then another, but not taking a single bite.
“Okay, so there was a full inhaler canister in his room, but that doesn’t mean anything. We’ve all got inhalers—asthma and allergies run in our family. For me it’s dust and mold. Junior can’t handle tree pollen. Dad, rest his soul, couldn’t be anywhere near a cat. But we all take the same medications—it’s no wonder the canisters got mixed up. Dad probably put his down and Junior picked it up, thinking it was his. Who can tell one Proventil from another?”
“Your father was allergic to cats?” asked Lucy. “There are no cats here.”
“He’s most allergic to cats, but he’s allergic to lots of other stuff, too. You never know what’s going to set you off. Sometimes I can drink orange juice; sometimes I can’t.” She paused. “I didn’t think I’d risk it today, considering everything.”
“Good call,” agreed Lucy. “My daughter has asthma. Like you say, sometimes the pollen count is high and she’s fine; other days it’s low but she runs into trouble anyway.”
“Then you understand what it’s like. I hope Junior’s doing okay in jail. You can just imagine the conditions: mildew, dust mites—I can’t deal with it. Angela took his medicine over, but we don’t know if they’ll let him have it.” She examined a lump of muffin, then put it down.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be venting like this, inflicting my feelings on you.” She shook her head ruefully. “I’m on the organizing committee, you know. I’m supposed to be running the conference, but I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.” She furrowed her brow. “How’s it going, by the way?”
“Great,” said Lucy, making her voice sound enthusiastic. “Terrific workshops. Fabulous. I’ve learned a lot.”
“I’m so glad.” Catherine sounded relieved. “Have you heard anything about the judging? We made some changes, you know, to try to make it fairer.”
Where was this conversation going? wondered Lucy. If she were in Catherine’s place she would hardly have been thinking about rule changes.
“I can only speak for myself, but I don’t think it could be any fairer,” she said. “Of course, I could be biased, since I won a first place.”
“Congratulations!” Catherine paused. “You know that job offer’s still good.” She stood up. “Thanks for listening. I’ve got to run.”
Lucy watched her leave, chewing thoughtfully on the last bit of her muffin. Definitely not blueberries, she decided, but some artificial substance designed to simulate blueberries. Real blueberries wouldn’t keep very well; the muffins might spoil before they could be sold.
Maybe something similar was going on at Pioneer Press, thought Lucy. Maybe the Reads were putting on a good appearance, pretending all was fine with the company, so they could unload it on National Media. Or maybe Pioneer wasn’t in such rocky financial shape as she thought. After all, Inez could hardly go on shopping sprees at Armani, and Catherine couldn’t hire new staff if the company was almost bankrupt, could they?
Was it one of those phony corporate bookkeeping scams she’d heard so much about lately? Were they deliberately fiddling with the figures for some reason? To avoid paying taxes? To make the company more attractive to a buyer? Was that what Sam Syrjala had on them?
As her mind leaped from one idea to another, Lucy realized she’d had the same confused sensation after her lunch with Catherine on Monday. Only this time Catherine had taken great pains to connect with her emotionally and win her sympathy. Had it been genuine, or had she been deliberately manipulating her? It was as if Catherine had a list of ideas that she wanted to convey, almost like a government official who had a list of talking points to cover.
For one thing, Lucy didn’t buy her insistence that Luther’s death had been an accident. Catherine was too experienced a journalist to believe that the police would make a mistake like that. They might have arrested the wrong person, and Lucy happened to think they had, but they never would have announced it was a homicide if there was the least possibility it was an accidental death.
She’d also refused to give Lucy Angela’s cell phone number, which guaranteed Angela would be incommunicado until after Lucy’s deadline at noon today. Was that intentional, or just coincidence?
As for the bit about the conference, Lucy thought it was more proof that Catherine was busily erecting barriers to protect herself from her true emotions. Instead of grieving for her father or worrying about Junior, she was focusing on the conference as something manageable and controllable.
Okay, maybe she was sounding like a psychologist, but she was beginning to think that Catherine might have built up quite a few resentments against her father over the years. There was the issue of her sexuality and whether that was the reason Luther had left all of his Pioneer Press shares to Junior. And what about Monica? Perhaps Catherine didn’t see her as a worthy successor to her late mother. Maybe she even feared losing her father’s affection when he became involved with Monica. Especially if his relationship with Monica was the reason he’d decided against selling the chain. Catherine had as much to gain from the sale as Junior, maybe more. She was clearly one of the stars of the company with her profitable paper, and National Media would certainly want to keep her. For Catherine, the giant conglomerate would certainly offer her more opportunities for advancement than she would have had in the small, family-owned Pioneer Press.
Lucy popped the last of her muffin into her mouth. It may have been fake, but it did taste a lot like blueberries. The imitation blueberries somehow tasted more like blueberries than the real thing, which were sometimes bland, or acidic instead of sweet. And maybe she was overreacting. She’d like to think so, she admitted to herself, but it was hard to overlook the fact that Catherine had plenty of reasons for wishing her father dead.
Lucy still had a few minutes before her workshop, so she refilled her coffee cup and sat back down at the sticky Formica table, pulling her cell phone from her purse. She dialed Ted’s room.
“I’ll start with the bad news,” she said when he answered. “I couldn’t get Angela.”
“Damn.”
“But there’s good news. I did get a nice quote from Catherine.”
She read it off so Ted could get it down.
“Good work, Lucy. That fills the hole in my story nicely.”
Lucy knew he was speaking literally. He had probably written the story about Junior’s arrest last night when he got back from police headquarters, leaving a space for reaction from the family. Now that the story was finished, he could e-mail it to Phyllis, who was putting the paper together for the noon deadline.
“Well, Catherine’s a pro,” replied Lucy. “She knew what we wanted.”
“It sounds like you two are getting pretty buddy-buddy.”
“Hardly. She’s all smoke and mirrors, believe me. She was trying to tell me that the cops have made a terrible mistake and Luther’s death was really an accident.”
“It’s called denial, Lucy.” Ted’s voice was gentle. “Who can blame her?”
“Well, if my father were murdered I’d want to know who did it.” Lucy paused. “Heck, I’m just a casual acquaintance and I want to know who did it. Did you get anything interesting from the cops last night?”
“Lucy, listen to me. You’re not investigating this murder; you’re attending a conference. Don’t you have a workshop this morning?”
Lucy checked her watch. It was time to get moving or she’d be late.
“I’m practically there,” she told Ted.
Chapter Thirteen
New Englan
d weather is remarkably unreliable, but every now and then the meteorological forces cooperate to produce a perfectly brilliant day at least once every June. It was just such a morning when Lucy left the coffee shop: the sun was shining in a cloudless blue sky, the air was fresh, and a gentle breeze ruffled her hair. It seemed horribly unfair that Ted expected her to spend such a morning in a windowless subterranean meeting room.
In a small act of rebellion she decided to delay the inevitable by walking around the block to the entrance on the other side of the hotel. The top-hatted doorman was too busy to hold open the door for her and when she went inside she found quite a crowd of people standing by the valet parking window. They were all waiting for their cars to be brought from the garage, and some of them seemed to be growing impatient. Harold Read, she noticed, was among them.
“Who ever heard of a hotel that doesn’t have a garage, that has to park the cars out in who-knows-where!”
Inez nervously plucked something from her beige, tailored silk sleeve. “Take it easy,” she murmured. “People will hear.”
Intrigued by this family drama, Lucy slowed her pace.
“I don’t care if they do hear. We’ve been waiting for half an hour. Where the hell is the car? Out in Dorchester?”
“I’d like to send that cat of yours to Dorchester,” declared Inez, holding out her arms for his inspection. “Look at this. My new suit is covered with cat hair.”
Hearing the word cat, Lucy decided to stick around. She found a spot against the marble wall and joined the group waiting for their cars.
“One or two hairs, that’s all,” said Harold. “It’s not Fluffy’s fault. Cats shed, especially in summer.” He tapped his foot. “Fluffy could have that car here faster than these idiots.”
“Calm down. You’re just going to raise your blood pressure,” said Inez, brushing at her sleeve.
She was perched on stiletto heels and her hips were encased in a short, tight skirt that matched her jacket. Lucy couldn’t imagine a more uncomfortable outfit. Inez was clearly a woman who put a premium on her appearance. The shoes, Lucy guessed, probably cost at least three hundred dollars; the suit must have set Harold back a couple of thousand. And then there was the hair, nails, and makeup, plus a generous sprinkling of jewelry. Inez was definitely high-maintenance and surely required frequent visits to the beauty salon, masseuse, and gym. It all seemed rather expensive for a man whose business was losing money.