Star Spangled Murder by Leslie Meier Page B

“Remember when Melissa Knight had meningitis and they sent that letter home from school saying we had to watch for the symptoms? It’s kind of like that. There was a chance that somebody else might have gotten sick, but nobody did, did they?” She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. “Well, Toby’s not going to go to jail, either. He’s going to be fine.”
    She turned around and restarted the car. “He’s going to be fine,” she told herself, repeating it like a mantra. “He’s going to be fine.”
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    By the time she got to work, Lucy felt as if she’d already completed a full day of hard labor. She had no energy for the pile of press releases that was waiting on her desk, no desire to check her phone messages and e-mails. All she wanted to do was crawl into a hole somewhere.
    â€œLucy, did you pick up the police log?” asked Phyllis. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
    â€œI forgot,” said Lucy, dropping her head onto her hand and shaking it.
    Talk about a Freudian slip: she’d forgotten because she didn’t want to see Toby’s name included with the drunken drivers and wife beaters and marijuana smokers that filled the roster each week. Now she’d have to take time she didn’t have to go over to the police station to get it. Leaving it out was unthinkable; the police log was one of the paper’s most popular features. Or was it? Ted was just coming through the door. She might as well try.
    â€œTed,” she began, greeting him with a big smile. “What’s the space situation this week? Tight?”
    â€œYou bet,” said Ted. “I’m considering adding some extra pages, but I don’t really have enough ads to justify it.”
    â€œWell, since there are so many big stories this week, what do you think about cutting some of the listings and notices, stuff like the gas prices and mortgage rates and maybe even the police log?”
    â€œYou forgot to get it, didn’t you?” Ted seemed amused.
    â€œWell, actually I did, and I have so much work to do. . . .”
    â€œNo problem,” he said, and Lucy’s hopes rose only to be dashed. “I’ll go.”
    â€œThat’s not like him,” observed Phyllis, after Ted had gone. “Do you think he’s coming down with something?”
    â€œMaybe,” said Lucy, sounding so hopeful that Phyllis gave her a sharp look.
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    The day dragged on as Lucy struggled to concentrate on her work. Her mind kept wandering, going over and over the same worries, like one of those mule trains that went down into the Grand Canyon day after day, wearing a winding trail into the rocky soil. Once started she couldn’t seem to stop and her anxiety about the dog hearing led to her worry about Toby and her disappointment with Elizabeth which brought her around to the younger girls’ disturbing behavior and finally Bill’s blood pressure which she thought he really should have checked because it was the “silent killer.”
    The clock alternately lurched forward and stopped in its tracks while Lucy struggled with her emotions. She wanted the day to end and she wanted it to last forever; she wanted to get the dog hearing over with and she wished it could be postponed.
    That night she cooked a family favorite, spaghetti, but nobody seemed to enjoy it. There was little conversation and they all ate mechanically, going through the familiar rituals of passing the basket of Italian bread and grating the Parmesan cheese without quite realizing what they were doing, each lost in their own thoughts.
    Finally, leaving the dirty dishes for the kids to wash, Lucy and Bill left for the dog hearing. But not before Lucy finished one last chore. She fixed Kudo’s bowl of kibble, adding a leftover meatball, and carried it out to him. She shoved it through the gate and stood watching him eat, wolfing down his