Father’s Day Murder by Leslie Meier Page B

deal sure looked good to her. Some people would lose their jobs, but there would be no jobs at all if the chain went out of business. Plus, the individual papers would continue to serve local communities. The sale seemed like the most responsible choice, and she found it hard to believe that someone with Luther’s commitment to news would throw it away and risk his reputation and his family’s fortune because of a woman. Even a woman with Monica Underwood’s undeniable charisma.
    Of course, admitted Lucy, it wouldn’t be the first time a man had made a bad decision because of a woman, and maintaining control of the papers would certainly allow him to help advance her political career. Ideally, newspapers were supposed to be impartial and to present the truth, but her experience as a reporter had shown her how easy it was to give a twist to a story simply by choosing what quotes to include, what details to highlight, what adjectives to use. Knowing Luther’s relationship with Monica, reporters and editors would behoove themselves to choose their words carefully when writing about her or the issues she favored.
    When her eyes would no longer focus and her hand was stiff from clicking the mouse, Lucy finally decided she’d gotten enough information. She stretched after she logged off but she still felt stiff as she went back outside. Pausing on the library steps to consult her map, she decided Boylston Street was the most direct route to the hotel.
    Her little map also informed her that the European-style square populated with many pigeons opposite the library was Copley Square, and the Romanesque-style church was the famous Trinity Church, where generations of Boston Brahmins had worshiped under Henry Hobson Richardson’s soaring gilt ceilings and John LaFarge’s stained-glass windows. She stepped inside and stood for a moment in the lobby, listening as the organist rehearsed and breathing in the old-church smell of candles and flowers. It was too late in the day for a tour, however, so she went on her way, past the controversial Saint-Gaudens’s statue of Phillips Brooks, the legendary nineteenth-century minister of the church, with Jesus standing behind him, imparting his divine blessing. Even today, she decided, it seemed a bit presumptuous.
    She continued on past the tall John Hancock Building, with its reflective glass walls, and made steady progress until the gilt-swan sign of the Women’s Educational and Industrial Union caught her eye. Inside she found a fascinating mix of antiques, relatively reasonably priced designer clothing and accessories, and a display of unique Father’s Day cards that were much more appealing than the mass-produced ones at the drugstore. She found one that was just right for Bill and bought it, resolving to head straight back to the hotel.
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    It was there that she literally bumped into Ted in the lobby.
    â€œLucy! There you are! I didn’t see you at the workshop and I was worried about you. I called your room but there was no answer. Are you okay?”
    â€œI’m fine now,” she said. “I did some sight-seeing.”
    â€œInstead of the Copyeditor’s Revenge?” asked Ted, eyes twinkling.
    â€œI’m afraid so,” admitted Lucy as they walked together to the elevators.
    They were standing there together, waiting, when the doors opened and a knot of men issued from the elevator, moving together and forcing everyone out of their way. This was certainly no group of conventioneers casually heading out for drinks before dinner, she realized, recognizing Detective Sullivan. These were police officers hustling someone out of the building. That someone was Junior Read.
    â€œI don’t believe it,” said Ted under his breath, following them.
    Lucy went too, unable to believe what she was seeing. They stood on the sidewalk, watching as one of the officers placed a hand on Junior’s head, preventing him from