Father’s Day Murder Page 3

  Lucy’s gaze turned to the crisply turned-out woman sitting on the sofa and she immediately recognized her. Monica Underwood was running for reelection as a senator representing Vermont in the United States Congress.

  “You need no introduction, either of you,” said Lucy. “It’s an honor to meet you.” Lucy took Monica’s outstretched hand. “I’ve often wished we had someone like you to represent Maine.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Monica. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you,” said Lucy, accepting her invitation.

  She almost felt like pinching herself to see if she were dreaming. After all, she’d barely been in Boston for an hour and here she was chatting with the Reads, who as owners of the Pioneer Press Group were major movers and shakers in the newspaper industry, and sitting next to Monica Underwood, the controversial champion of doomed initiatives like the Equal Rights Amendment and universal health care and a tireless advocate for the underprivileged, unemployed, and uninsured. And they were all treating her as if she were their equal.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lucy,” said Luther, taking an adjacent chair. “I’ve admired your work for some time.”

  “Thank you,” replied Lucy, trying not to stammer. “I have to admit that I’m a little surprised to learn that you read the Pennysaver.”

  “Of course we do. We’re in the business, for one thing, and having the house in Tinker’s Cove, we’ve always followed the local news in the Pennysaver. I must say you’ve really brought new energy and a fresh perspective to that venerable institution. You have a real knack for getting the story.”

  Lucy swallowed hard. “I think most of the credit should go to Ted—Ted Stillings—he’s the editor and publisher.”

  “You’re too modest,” said Luther. “I’ve been in the business a long time and I know good work when I see it.”

  “It’s true,” said Monica, taking Luther’s hand and giving it an affectionate squeeze. “Luther is going to be named Newspaperman of the Year at the banquet tomorrow night.”

  “Congratulations,” said Lucy. “That’s quite an honor.”

  “No one deserves it more,” said Junior.

  There was such honest respect and affection in his voice that Lucy was struck by it. It wasn’t often, she thought, that a grown son expressed such open admiration for his father. She found herself wishing that Bill and Toby’s relationship were more like Luther and Junior’s.

  “That’s right,” agreed Monica. “Luther hasn’t just paid lip service to the democratic idea of free and open debate; he’s made it a reality in the Pioneer Press papers.”

  “Not everyone would agree with you, my dear,” said Luther. “Some of our readers and employees seem to feel we’ve carried openness a bit too far, especially when it comes to social issues like reproductive rights and homosexuality.”

  “What do you think, Lucy?” asked Monica, graciously drawing her into the conversation. “What’s the line between reporting and advocating?”

  Lucy, who had been content to bask in the presence of such exalted company, now found herself the focus of attention. She was groping for a reply when she was saved by Junior, who glanced at his watch and announced they had to leave.

  “We’ve got to get up to the hospitality suite. It’s due to open and Harold will be waiting for us.”

  “Right, right,” said Luther, getting easily to his feet despite his age. He turned to Lucy. “My brother Harold is a stickler for punctuality,” he said.

  “He’s also the only Republican in the family,” said Junior.

  As the two men stood side by side, Lucy was struck by the resemblance between father and son. Both were tall and fit, exuding confidence and affability. And wealth, she decided. Not that they were ostentatious in any way, but it showed in their perfect white smiles and expensively flatering haircuts and the tailored fit of their clothes and the gleam of their buffed leather shoes.

  “Lucy, I hope you’ll join us for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. We at Pioneer Press pride ourselves on our hospitality and always put out quite a spread, if I do say so myself.”

  It was tempting, and no doubt Ted would be thrilled if she cadged a free meal.

  “Thank you,” she said as the group headed back to the elevator, “but I haven’t gotten settled yet.”

  “Of course,” said Junior. “Come on down later, once you’ve got things sorted out. It’s on the fourth floor. What’s the number?”

  “Four-oh-four,” said Monica, leading the way into the elevator.

  “The doors will be open into the wee hours, if previous years are any indication,” said Luther, turning to Lucy. “I think that hospitality suite is the main reason I’m Newspaperman of the Year. Free food and drink will take you far in the news business.”

  “In politics, too,” added Monica, as the elevator slowed. “It was nice to meet you, Lucy. I hope we’ll see you later.”

  The doors opened and Lucy stepped out, turning to say good-bye. She hated to leave this happy bunch, all so friendly and smiling at her. She impulsively decided to accept the invitation.

  “Sure thing,” she said quickly, as the doors started to close.

  Chapter Four

  Then the doors closed and she was left alone in the elevator, ascending smoothly to the tenth floor. Lucy followed the sign when she got off the elevator, proceeding down a short hall and turning a corner, where she immediately found her room. At least she didn’t have to walk all the way down the long hall, she thought, wondering if the elevators would be noisy at night. It took a few tries, but she finally got the key card to work and opened the door to her room. She closed it carefully behind her, fastening both the latch and the safety chain. She was a woman alone in the big city, and she wasn’t going to take any chances.

  Flicking on the light switch, she poked her head into the bathroom—white, tiny, and old-fashioned with a pedestal sink—and went straight to the window to open the drapes. Looking out, she was disappointed to see there was no view of the city, only four dreary brick walls punctuated with rows of windows. It was some sort of air shaft, she decided, that provided light and ventilation to the inside, less expensive rooms like hers.

  Even so, she decided as she studied the furnishings, it was much more luxurious than the master bedroom at home, even if it wasn’t much larger. The furniture all matched, for one thing. And the bed was covered with a puffy maroon comforter and the pillows encased in white Euro-style shams. It was much more sophisticated than the candlewick spread on the bed she shared with Bill. Bed stands with bulky square lamps flanked both sides of the bed, and a matching floor lamp stood in one corner, next to a rather stiff-looking armchair. A fourth lamp, with an enormous square shade, stood on a long, low bureau next to the TV. The shade was askew—the lamp had been shoved too close to the wall—and Lucy automatically straightened it. She hated cockeyed lampshades, and, come to think of it, she didn’t much like all the bits and pieces of cardboard that advised her she was indeed welcome at the Park Plaza Hotel and putting her on notice that this was a nonsmoking room and offering her several choices of room-service breakfasts. She gathered them all up and shoved them in a drawer. It was her room, after all, and she was going to be here for the better part of a week. She might as well have things the way she liked them.

  Warned in advance about the high cost of hotel telephones by Ted, she perched on the edge of her bed and pulled her cell phone out of her purse and called home. The call went through and she waited while it rang at least ten times, but nobody answered. They must all be out, she decided, but where? What could they possibly be doing on a Sunday evening? Sara and Zoe ought to getting ready for bed—tomorrow was a school day—and Elizabeth ought to be helping them. Bill usually watched a newsmagazine show on Sundays; he hated to miss it. And Toby…well, the less she thought about what Toby did with his time these days the better.

  Unless, she thought, he hadn’t gone out. Maybe he’d stayed home, provoking a fight with
his father. She could see the headlines now: Deadly Domestic Dispute Rocks Village. Violence Erupts on Red Top Road. Neighbors Never Suspected Family Dysfunction.

  That last one needed work, she thought, regaining her senses. Bill had probably taken the younger girls out for ice cream. Or down to the town pier to see the seals. Elizabeth and Toby were probably out with friends. There was no need to panic, not yet anyway. She’d call first thing tomorrow. If nobody answered, then she’d panic.

  Next on her list was a call to Ted, informing him she had arrived. She made that call on the hotel phone, calling the desk and asking to be connected to his room.

  “You got in all right?”

  His voice was so loud, it startled her.

  “Safe and sound.”

  “Great! Hey, congratulations! That series you did on the fishing industry got an award.”

  “Really?” Lucy was delighted. “First place, second, honorable mention? What?”

  “Dunno. They’ll announce it at the banquet. But you definitely won something.”

  “Wow.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” cautioned Ted. “There’s no money in the budget for a raise or anything.”

  “I won’t,” promised Lucy. “Are you going to the hospitality suite?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “I guess I’ll see you there, then. ’Bye.”

  Lucy carefully replaced the phone, then did a little victory dance around the bed. She’d won a prize. She was a winner! A prizewinning journalist. It was amazing. Fantastic. She was hot! No wonder the Reads had all been so nice to her. She was a star. A comer. A comet, blazing a trail of glory through the newspaper universe.

  Well, at any rate, someone to watch. Someone to be taken seriously. A reporter readers could trust. One who generally got things right more often than she got them wrong. Someone, she decided as she opened her suitcase, who needed to calm down and get control of herself.

  Now what exactly, she wondered, did you wear to a hospitality suite?

  A short time later she was standing in the open doorway to the Pioneer Press hospitality suite, dressed in the polo-style shirtdress with the grosgrain ribbon belt she’d bought at the outlet mall. The saleslady had promised her it was a classic, but Lucy was beginning to think it was last year’s classic look. Nobody else was wearing anything remotely like it.

  “Lucy! So glad you could make it!” Junior clasped her hand and shook it energetically, radiating good fellowship and bonhomie. “The bar’s in the corner and help yourself to the food.”

  Then he was gone. Lucy scanned the room, looking for Ted. Or someone she knew. Anybody. But except for Monica Underwood and Luther Read, she didn’t recognize a single soul. She didn’t feel as if she could presume on her slight acquaintance with them; besides, they were busy working the room, greeting important people. They seemed important, anyway, these tall men in their tailored suits and slicked-back hair with their reed-thin wives on their arms.

  The type was familiar to her from home. The folks who had summer homes on Smith Heights Road and belonged to the yacht club. The men played golf and the women belonged to the garden club and organized house tours to raise money for favorite charities. They didn’t mingle much with year-rounders like herself.

  Lucy decided a glass of white wine might help boost her confidence, so she headed for the bar. Then, glass in hand, she began a slow circuit of the room, looking for someone to strike up a conversation with. Most everyone was in a group, engaged in lively conversation punctuated with bursts of laughter, but she finally spotted another loner, a heavyset woman with a glum expression.

  “Hi! Nice party, isn’t it?” said Lucy.

  The woman stared at her through thick glasses, as if she’d made an indecent proposition, then abruptly turned and clomped off.

  Oh, well, she’d done her best. She’d tried to be sociable, but now it was time for the prizewinning journalist to hit the buffet table. That was where Ted found her, stubbornly holding her own amidst the crowd of hungry journalists browsing among the platters of shrimp, cheese, and raw vegetables. There were also chafing dishes holding hot Swedish meatballs, bacon-wrapped scallops, and pigs-in-blankets.

  “Some spread, huh?” said Ted. “We probably won’t need supper after all this.”

  “I guess not,” said Lucy, attacking the platters with new gusto. “But what about dessert?”

  “There’s a fruit platter on the other table.”

  The other table, Lucy saw, was surrounded by an even larger crowd of people. It was a positive feeding frenzy; she’d never seen anything like it.

  “Maybe later,” she said.

  “I’m going to get in there before it’s all gone,” said Ted, diving into the fray.

  Lucy retreated to a quiet corner, where she stood and nibbled on her supper of hors d’oeuvres. It was a funny sort of party, she decided. Except for the Reads and their crowd, probably publishers, not much socializing was going on at all. People were just eating and drinking as fast as they could. These were most certainly the reporters and editors at the bottom of the organizational pyramid. They put in long hours, they didn’t make much money, and they weren’t about to pass up a free meal. In fact, quite a few of them were snagging snacks for later, wrapping bits of food in paper napkins and tucking them away in purses and pockets.

  Once Lucy had finished eating she didn’t see much point in sticking around, so she put her plate on a table by the door and headed for her room. She still hadn’t unpacked and she had a fresh bottle of bubble bath and an emergency chocolate bar in her suitcase. Just the thing to round out her dinner.

  Chapter Five

  When Lucy woke the next morning it took her a moment or two to remember where she was. She missed the warmth of Bill’s body, his bulk, beside her. At home she liked to savor the first moments of her day, lying in bed and listening to the birds singing outside. Once she’d checked the clock, she always looked at the white-curtained window, gauging whether it would be sunny or cloudy. Then she’d consciously prepare herself for the day ahead by counting her blessings: being alive, being married to the man she loved, having four healthy children. Those things topped the list, but Lucy didn’t stop there. She counted the house, the well-stocked pantry and refrigerator, the peas ripening in the garden, the buds on the rosebushes along the fence, the six new pairs of underpants neatly folded in her top drawer.

  She tried the exercise in the hotel, stretching luxuriously under the crisp, white sheets, but it just made her feel homesick. It was already past seven, and at home she would have been up for an hour. She’d be hurrying Sara out the door to catch the school bus, reminding her of after-school activities and checking to make sure she had her lunch and homework. Then there would just be time for a swallow of coffee before she had to get Zoe, who took the eight-o’clock elementary school bus, started on her breakfast. It was a pretty complicated routine, and Lucy acted like a conductor, making sure everyone got fed and dressed and got a turn in the bathroom. She wondered how they were managing without her.

  Probably not very well, but there was nothing she could do about it here in Boston. She rolled over and dug the card listing room-service breakfasts out of the drawer where she’d stowed it. The Businessman’s Special with bacon and two eggs was an outrageous eighteen dollars, but she was seriously tempted by the Continental at a more reasonable twelve dollars. It would be an extravagance, but one that she herself could afford. The phone rang and she grabbed it eagerly, hoping it was Bill. Instead she heard Ted’s voice, sounding a little thick, as if he’d been out partying the night before.

  “G’morning,” he said. “The registration desk opens at eight, so what say you get there first thing to beat the crowd and then we’ll get some breakfast.”

  Lucy regretfully slipped the room service menu back into the drawer and checked the clock. It was almost seven-thirty, which meant that her leisurely morning was at an end.

  “Okay. I’ll meet you in t
he lobby in half an hour.”

  “Righto.” Ted chuckled. “I’ll be wearing a white carnation.”

  That must have been some night if Ted was still feeling no pain, thought Lucy as she hung up the phone. She hadn’t expected her boss to behave like a stereotypical conventioneer; she thought he was serious about attending the workshops and honing his skills. Then again, maybe he was here to party while she did the serious work. She stretched and got out of bed, heading for the shower.

  Her hair was still damp when she found the registration desk, located on the mezzanine. No one was manning it yet, however, so she wandered into the exhibit room. There, portable partitions had been set up, creating a gallerylike effect, but instead of paintings they displayed tear sheets from newspapers. They were arranged by category, and Lucy soon realized these were the stories and photographs that had been chosen for awards by the judges. The awards hadn’t been announced yet, but all of the displays would receive prizes ranging from honorable mention to first place.

  Lucy was especially fascinated by the photographs: a firefighter with an infant folded against his chest, the stoic and tearless face of a military widow receiving a folded flag as her two young children clung to her legs, and a charming shot of a grandmother and grandchild sharing the first ice-cream cone of the summer season. She got a pleasant surprise when she rounded the corner to view the exhibits on the other side of the partition and saw a familiar page from the Pennysaver with her byline. It was a story she had written over a year ago, about the impact of federal and state regulations on Maine fishermen. The judge’s comment, scrawled in Magic Marker, read, Carefully chosen quotes and real-life stories give these statistics a human dimension—top-notch reporting and writing.

  Lucy felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment and pleasure. It was true. They liked her work. She was good. She was a good reporter. Top-notch in fact. Wow. She stepped back to admire the page, taking in for the first time the three other stories in her category. They all had similarly flattering comments. Oh, well. Time would tell.