Father’s Day Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “I don’t know if you’re interested in this,” said the librarian, peering at a dense block of print on her computer screen. “It’s a Read wedding announcement. The date is September twelfth.”

  “Thank you,” said Lucy. “I really appreciate your help. And Fran’s. Giving me access to the archives like this is fantastic.”

  The librarian shot her an odd look. “The archives are accessible to anyone with a computer,” she said. “They’re on the Internet.”

  “Really?” Lucy suddenly felt very stupid.

  The librarian nodded. “BostonHerald-dot-com.”

  “But when I did research at the public library none of this stuff came up,” said Lucy. “How come?”

  “What you get depends on your search engine and what you ask it to search for,” said the librarian. “Sometimes it can be pretty frustrating. A period, even, can make a big difference.”

  There was more to this information revolution than she’d realized, decided Lucy, pulling up the file. But when she scanned the names in bold black print she didn’t see any Reads. Discouraged, she started to scroll through the text with tired eyes. There was something to be said for the old microfiche system, she decided. At least it had pictures. She was about to give up when the penny dropped and she realized the identity of the bride, Louise Randolph.

  Louise! Harold’s first wife! She quickly zoomed in on the announcement, learning that the new Mrs. Alan K. Hutchinson, the former Mrs. Harold Read, would be living with her husband in Boston after returning from their honeymoon in Hawaii. Louise had apparently reverted to her maiden name, Randolph, when she divorced Harold.

  Since the wedding was in September and it was now June, Lucy thought it safe to assume they had returned from their honeymoon. She decided to give the former Mrs. Read a call, on the off chance she’d like nothing better than an opportunity to speak ill of her former husband.

  Chapter Twenty

  Louise Hutchinson didn’t take it the least bit amiss that Lucy wanted to question her about her ex-husband.

  “You’re an investigator, like in a book or something?” she asked, when Lucy explained the purpose of her phone call.

  “Not exactly. I work for a newspaper. The Tinker’s Cove Pennysaver.”

  “Oh, Tinker’s Cove. That was the one good thing about being married to that worm. The summer visits. It was like going back in time. Picking blueberries. Clamming. I loved it.”

  Lucy was beginning to feel homesick. She could hardly wait until tomorrow, when she would catch the first bus out of Boston. And once she was home she’d straighten things out with Bill, get the kids back on track, and tackle the mountain of laundry that was no doubt waiting for her.

  “That’s why I need to talk to you tonight,” she said. “I’m going back tomorrow.”

  “No problem,” said Louise. “My husband is working tonight—he’s a firefighter. I’d love some company.”

  She gave Lucy the address, which turned out to be a far cry from the living arrangements Lucy had come to expect of the Read family. Louise’s home was no château; it wasn’t a commodious Queen Anne cottage; it was a classic three-decker in Dorchester containing an apartment on each level. The Hutchinsons lived at the top, and Lucy was puffing a bit from climbing up two flights of stairs when she knocked on the thickly varnished brown door.

  “Come on in,” said Louise, a round-faced woman in her fifties with very curly hair who was wearing a brightly colored Hawaiian muumuu. A souvenir of her honeymoon, guessed Lucy.

  Louise led her into a spacious, airy living room filled with comfortable, well-used furniture. A bay window was filled with a collection of thriving plants, including a few orchids.

  “They’re my passion, like Nero Wolfe. I’m reading one of his right now,” said Louise, indicating a well-worn stack of books on a table next to a slipcovered wing chair. “I love reading mysteries; it’s an addiction. Fortunately, I get them cheap at the used-book store.” She rolled her eyes. “But what am I doing keeping you standing like this? Let’s sit down. Would you like a cup of tea, like Miss Marple?”

  “I would,” said Lucy, hoping she’d add a plate of cookies. It had been a long time since she’d had anything to eat.

  “How about a sandwich? That’s what I usually have for supper when Al works nights.”

  “I’d love one,” said Lucy, sinking gratefully onto the couch.

  “Egg salad okay?”

  The thought made Lucy’s mouth water. “Fabulous.”

  “I’ll be just a sec—or if you want, come on in the kitchen.”

  Lucy rose wearily and followed Louise into the kitchen, where she sat at a red Formica table next to the sparkling window. The windowsill, and the porch beyond, were filled with pots of geraniums and impatiens and other flowering plants; there were even pots of fresh herbs, and Louise snipped some parsley to add to the egg salad. In the distance, Lucy could see sparkling blue water and a steady stream of silvery jets coming and going from Logan International Airport.

  When Lucy complimented her on the view, Louise dismissed it. “It’s nothing like Tinker’s Cove,” she said, with a sigh. “The air in Tinker’s Cove is something, you know. So fresh. That’s what I miss the most, I guess. You know that smell when you dry the sheets and towels outside on a line, in the sunshine? I try here on the porch, but it’s not the same. There’s always that hint of diesel exhaust.”

  “So how long were you married to Harold?”

  “Close to twenty-five years.”

  Louise set a plate loaded with a thick sandwich, a generous heap of potato chips, and a half a dill pickle in front of Lucy.

  “This is delicious,” said Lucy. “Lunch was a long time ago.”

  “I guess you newspaper people don’t take time to eat,” said Louise, taking the opposite seat. “The girl who was here earlier must have eaten an entire box of cookies.”

  Lucy had a feeling she knew who it was. “Someone was here earlier?”

  “She was a cute little thing. Said she was from Framingham. Maureen—no, Morgan. That was it. Morgan Dodd.”

  “I know Morgan,” said Lucy, feeling rather put out that Morgan had found Louise first. “What did she want to know?”

  “Probably the same as you. She wanted to know about Harold and whether I think he could’ve killed his brother, Luther.” Louise picked up a chip. “I told her I wouldn’t put it past him, not after what he tried to do to me.”

  “You really believe he tried to poison you?”

  Louise’s eyes were huge. “There is no doubt in my mind! That drink smelled funny. Bitter. He wanted to get rid of me, you see, and he didn’t want to have to spend any money to do it. He needed it all for Inez.”

  “Tell me,” began Lucy, “when you were married to Harold, did you enjoy a lavish lifestyle?”

  Louise tipped back her head and roared in laughter. “Lavish! That’s a scream, honey. He was the cheapest man I’ve ever known. I mean, I loved vacations in Tinker’s Cove, but it was definitely a low-cost option. Staying with family. Free food, free lodging. Maybe he’d take everybody out for ice cream, something like that. Nobody could make the bull scream better than Harold, that’s for sure.”

  “Was money tight?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. We did have a very nice house and nice cars and the kids went to private schools. There was money, a lot more than most people have.” She glanced around her kitchen. “I know that now.” She smiled. “And I know that money doesn’t buy you happiness; that’s for sure.”

  “But he wasn’t taking you to lunch at the Four Seasons, or encouraging you to shop at Armani?” persisted Lucy.

  “Uh, no. A nice outfit from Talbot’s for a special occasion was about all I could expect, and it was better if I managed to buy it on sale.”

  “So what changed? Is the company suddenly making a lot more money?”

  “I doubt it, but I don’t really know. I’m no business-woman.”

  Lucy decided to try a different tack.


  “Do you know how he met Inez? Were you in the same social circle?”

  “No, Inez would hardly fit in at the Sleepy Hollow Country Club.” She paused, clearing the dirty plates off the table and setting down a freshly baked pound cake. “As I understand it, she was with an accounting firm that was hired to do an audit.” She lifted the knife and sliced a piece for Lucy. “I never saw it coming. I thought all he was interested in was her bookkeeping.”

  Maybe he was, thought Lucy, taking a bite of cake.

  “Mmm,” she moaned. “This is delicious.”

  “Sour cream,” admitted Louise, with a rueful pat of her tummy. “Thank God for muumuus.”

  Lucy followed Louise’s instructions and took the Red Line back to the hotel from a nearby T station, saving herself a large taxi fare. When the train pulled into Park Street she decided that rather than changing to the Green Line for a single stop she’d walk instead. It would give her a chance to organize her thoughts, which had been in a whirl since her conversation with Louise.

  It was beginning to get dark, however, and she was nervous about walking alone through the shadows of Boston Common. She decided to skirt the park by walking along Tremont Street. At the corner of Boylston a brightly lit McDonald’s beckoned; the evening had grown chilly and she had a sudden yearning for a cup of hot coffee.

  She was sitting at a table, sipping her coffee, when she heard a familiar voice.

  “Wow. Imagine meeting you here. Mind if I sit down?”

  Surprised, Lucy choked on her coffee. All she could do was nod. Morgan took it for an invitation and sat down. Her tray, Lucy noticed, held a salad and a bottle of water. Clearly the antimuumuu diet.

  “This is a hell of a way to spend your last night at the convention,” said Morgan. “All alone in a fast-food joint.”

  “I haven’t been here all night,” said Lucy. “In fact, I was paying a visit to a very nice lady in Dorchester. I think you know her.”

  “Great minds think alike,” said Morgan, nibbling on a piece of lettuce. “Did you have an interesting conversation?”

  “If I did, do you think I’d tell you?”

  “You did find something, didn’t you?”

  Lucy looked at her coffee.

  “Aw, c’mon. Tell me. I hate it when people keep secrets.”

  “Grow up,” advised Lucy. “Do your own homework.”

  “What, they imprint these phrases in your head when you give birth? It, like, comes with the anesthesia or something?” She leveled a long, cool stare at Lucy. “No. I don’t think you’ve got a story or you wouldn’t be sitting here overdosing on caffeine; you’d be writing it.” She speared a cherry tomato. “We’re obviously on the same track here—what do you say we pool our knowledge and see what we’ve got.”

  Lucy thought it over. Maybe Morgan had a point. She did have something of a relationship with the Boston cops, even if it wasn’t as good as she thought it was. She had names and phone numbers, and maybe she could get somebody in the department to listen to her.

  “Okay,” said Lucy. “I’ll tell you what I’ve got, and if we get a story out of it, we both get credit. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Morgan held out her hand and they shook on it. “So what have you got?”

  “Harold Read tried to poison his first wife….”

  Morgan yawned.

  “It’s the same modus operandi and, furthermore, he had a whopper of a motive. He and Inez have been cooking the books and using Pioneer Press as their own personal checking account. Luther figured it out, probably when he was negotiating the National Media sale, and that’s why Harold killed him.”

  “The cops have cleared Harold,” said Morgan, interrupting her. “They’ve got a water bottle with Junior’s prints.”

  “A water bottle? That’s how the poison was delivered?”

  “Pretty cold. Luther’s choking and the murderer offers him a drink.”

  Lucy didn’t buy it. There were water bottles all over the convention. It would be easy to switch one for another. “What about other prints?” she asked.

  “Oh, it’s got plenty of other prints, too, but the cops don’t care. They’ve got Junior’s, plus Junior alone with his father and Junior’s motive. He wanted the sale to go through so he could start a magazine, and Dad was blocking it.”

  “So you agree with the police? You think it was Junior?”

  “I’m not ready to say.”

  Lucy was indignant. “I thought we were working on this together!”

  Morgan shrugged. “I changed my mind.” She got up to go.

  “That’s not fair,” protested Lucy.

  “Let’s just say I thought you had more than you did. I thought you were going in a different direction. You can’t help me and I’m not going to hand my story to you.”

  “If you’re thinking—”

  “Sorry.” She picked up her unfinished water bottle and slipped it into her purse, leaving her tray on the table. “Like my dad always says, I’ve got to see a man about a horse.” She grinned. “I’m gonna break this story wide open; just see if I don’t.”

  Lucy watched her leave and debated whether she should follow her. A little spark of resentment flared. Well, if she was going to be like that, more power to her. Let her go off alone to meet Deep Throat. Or maybe it was all a bluff and she was heading home to Framingham to do her laundry and touch up her dye job. Lucy crumpled up her napkin and tossed it on a tray, disgusted. A deal was a deal. The least Morgan could have done was run her story by Lucy and give her a chance to shoot a few holes in whatever stupid theory she had. Lucy didn’t think for one minute that Morgan was any closer to breaking the story than she was. And at least she, unlike Morgan, knew when she was beat. She didn’t have a story yet. All she had were some pretty good hunches. She might as well go back to the hotel and pack.

  She picked up Morgan’s tray and took it over to the trash bin, then decided to visit the ladies’ room. It was there that she ran into Carole.

  “What a coincidence,” she exclaimed. “You know who else I saw? Morgan Dodd!”

  “It’s not all that surprising,” said Carole, holding her hands under the hot-air blower. “I did a story once on the appeal of fast-food restaurants for women dining alone. Surveys show women feel a lot more comfortable in McDonald’s or Burger King than they do in a more upscale place if they’re by themselves.” She smiled apologetically. “I’ve been in features too long. So what’s our favorite girl reporter up to?”

  Lucy was washing her hands. “She says she’s solved the murder—but I have my doubts.”

  “Ah, the confidence of youth.”

  “Exactly,” said Lucy. “Are you going back to the hotel?”

  “No,” said Carole with a sigh, “there’s no rest for a working girl like me. I’ve got a meeting.”

  “At this hour?”

  Carole gave a poor-me sort of shrug.

  “That’s not right,” declared Lucy, thanking her lucky stars that she had a boss like Ted, who understood she had responsibilities outside of work. Ted would never expect her to work so late, especially on a Friday night. “You should give ’em hell.”

  “Oh, I intend to,” said Carole, leaving Lucy standing in front of the hand dryer.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Boylston Street was quiet, with only the occasional pedestrian and little traffic. Rush hour was over, and it was too early for people to begin coming into town for nightclubs or theaters. Lucy strolled along, determined to enjoy the sensation of having the city to herself on her last night in Boston.

  She didn’t envy Carole, she decided, even if she did have a fancy career and gorgeous clothes. Her life seemed so frantic, somehow. She was here, there, and everywhere, always on her way to some meeting or other. And all her hard work hadn’t gotten her all that far. She was the features editor of the Hartford Gazette, to be sure, but the people on the news desk tended to think of features as fluff. It wasn’t “real” news, like fires and automobi
le crashes and politics and world affairs. Of course, women hadn’t been able to get jobs on the news desk until recently. Carole was a victim of her time. If she were starting out now, like Morgan, her chances would be much better.

  Lucy couldn’t help but smile when she thought of Morgan. That girl certainly knew how to get her goat, almost as if she were one of her children. That was when it hit Lucy: Morgan looked a lot like Elizabeth, with her spiky black hair and determined little chin. Of course, Morgan had a lot more drive than the lazy Elizabeth. She reminded Lucy of a feisty little terrier who wouldn’t let go once she’d gotten her teeth into something. The something in this case was Luther Read’s murder, and Morgan had set her mind on breaking the story. Lucy was convinced she’d succeed or die trying.

  More power to her, thought Lucy. She had some leads of her own that she intended to follow up when she got back home. After talking to Louise she was more convinced than ever that Harold was bleeding Pioneer Press dry in order to keep up his lavish lifestyle. She wondered if Ted was having any luck with those annual reports. It might be worth the expense to have an accountant take a look at them. If it panned out, this could be a big story that the regional papers, and maybe even national press, would pick up.

  The plan buoyed her spirits. It would be good to be home, to sleep in her own bed, cuddled up against Bill. She even missed his snoring, she realized as she passed a liquor store and remembered she needed vodka for his traditional Father’s Day Bloody Mary. She dithered a bit, debating whether she should wait to buy it in Tinker’s Cove, but decided she didn’t want to risk it. She might forget; she might not have an opportunity once she was back in the thick of family life. She went in.