Free Father’s Day Murder by Leslie Meier Page B

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.
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    Hearing her phone ring, Lucy hurried out of the bathroom to answer it. It was Ted.
    â€œLucy, 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.”
    â€œAren’t we under some sort of gag order?”
    â€œThis is America, remember. There’s such a thing as the First Amendment.”
    â€œThere’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.
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œYeah,” she said, figuring it was Ted.
    â€œI guess you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” responded Phyllis.
    â€œSorry. I thought you were Ted.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œMrs. Pratt called and asked me to tell you that Kudo got into her chicken run again.”
    Relief flooded Lucy. “Is that all?”
    â€œShe says she’s had it and she’s going to call the animal-control officer.”
    â€œDid you tell her I’d pay damages?”
    â€œOf 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.”
    â€œShe’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.”
    â€œI’m just passing along the message. Do you want her phone number?”
    â€œSure.” Lucy jotted it down. “How’s it going with the quotes?”
    â€œI’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