Read Online Father’s Day Murder by Leslie Meier - Free Book Online

crudely, especially Catherine. The others seemed unfazed by his attitude, however.
    â€œCan’t blame Junior,” said Herb philosophically. “You can’t make any money in newspapers anymore.”
    While the conversation turned to the sorry state of the news industry, Lucy fell silent, remembering the scene she’d witnessed earlier. Had Junior and Luther been arguing about the sale to National Media? What had Luther said? Something about pouring out his lifeblood for forty years? Something like that. From what she was hearing, Junior was the odd man out. The others were probably relieved the sale was off. Especially Catherine. Lucy wondered if she really was a lesbian, or if the guy with glasses thought the word was an insult.
    Almost everyone was seated by now, filling all the tables except for number twenty, right next to twenty-one, where Lucy and Ted were sitting. The buzzing in the room quieted and there was an expectant hush, almost as if word had been received that the president’s helicopter had landed outside. Only this time the awaited guest was Luther Read, the Newspaperman of the Year.
    When he finally appeared in the doorway, followed by an entourage, there was a spontaneous outburst of applause. Many people got to their feet and greeted him as he passed, shaking hands and slapping him on the back. Several women embraced him, giving him air kisses.
    â€œThis could take all night,” grumbled Herb. “When are they gonna start serving the food?”
    â€œHonestly, Herb,” said Harriet, rolling her eyes. “Can’t you think of anything except your stomach?”
    â€œIt’s been, what, seven hours since lunch. My ulcer’s acting up.”
    â€œWell, take one of your pills and hush; here they come.”
    â€œHe’s not the goddamn king of the world,” said Herb, as his wife popped out of her seat and reached for Luther’s hand.
    â€œHarriet! And Herb! Nice to see you!” boomed Luther. “Great to see you all.”
    Behind him, Junior and Catherine wore the bemused expressions of second-fiddle players, watching their father in action.
    â€œWe’d better get to our table, Dad. They’re starting to serve. And we don’t want to hold things up.”
    â€œRight, right. I just want to say hi to all my friends. Do I see Ted Stillings over there? The Rupert Murdoch of Tinker’s Cove?”
    Ted laughed at the joke, standing up and reaching across the table to take first Luther’s hand and then Junior’s. While they were exchanging congratulations, Catherine greeted Lucy.
    â€œWhat was that all about?” asked Ted, when the Reads moved on to their table.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI didn’t know you’re friends with Catherine Read, that’s all.”
    â€œI just met her today, at one of the panels,” said Lucy. “We had lunch together.”
    â€œI heard she’s head-hunting,” said the glum woman. “Little Miss Perfect can’t keep staff. People are quitting right and left.”
    Ted gave her a sharp look.
    â€œWho’s that couple?” asked Lucy, eager to change the subject. “The man who’s about Luther’s age and the woman who looks like Ivana Trump?”
    She was especially curious about the man because he was sitting next to Sam Syrjala, of all people, and apparently sharing a joke with him. She would never have expected someone like Syrjala to be seated at the Reads’ table, much less acting as if he belonged there.
    Harriet chuckled merrily. “Ivana Trump, that’s good,” she said, as the waiter set a fruit cup in front of her.
    â€œHarold Read, publisher of the Manchester Republican, and his wife,” said Ted. “What’s her name?”
    â€œInez,” said the glum woman. “But it ought to be Imelda, if anybody’s counting shoes.”
    â€œLike Imelda Marcos?” asked Lucy. “The wife of