Father’s Day Murder by Leslie Meier

was comprised of smaller, regional papers, and hadn’t been represented at the convention. They were free to give Luther Read’s death front-page coverage.
    But they hadn’t, she discovered, as she quickly flipped through the papers while waiting in line to pay. The tabloid Herald had devoted its front page to a corrupt city official, and the Globe had placed the story inside, on the Metro section front. Murder was apparently too commonplace in the big city to attract much notice.
    Poor Luther, thought Lucy, as she headed back to the hotel. Even in death he was only a big fish in a small pond. Still, the Globe had given the story twenty inches, and she wished she had time to read every word. Maybe, she thought hopefully, the panel would start late. The hotel lobby certainly seemed deserted, with none of its usual hustle and bustle, as if people were still recovering from last night’s extraordinary events.
    She had reached the stairs and was poised to go down to the meeting room when she hesitated, wondering if the panels had been canceled. When she got to the meeting room, however, she found a handful of tired-looking people, most of them clutching cups of coffee. She joined them, sipping from her own extra-large cup and reading the Globe story while she waited for the panel to start.
    Not that it told her anything she didn’t know. Luther’s death was under investigation, but few facts were known, reported Brad McAbee. The remainder of the story was devoted to an account of Luther’s career and the Newspaperman of the Year award he would have received. Lucy got the impression that the story had originally been written to announce the award and a few lead paragraphs had been added after news of his death broke.
    Lucy turned to the Herald, which was definitely the more lively of the city’s two papers. Lucy chuckled over the front page, where enormous black letters proclaimed CAUGHT over a photo of a city official cavorting with lobbyists and scantily clad women on the deck of a cabin cruiser named Bad Company. She was flipping through the rest of the paper when another photograph caught her eye. In town for the Northeast Newspaper Association conference, Northampton News publisher Catherine Read and partner Heloise Randall danced the night away Sunday at Cambridge’s famed girl bar the Coven, read the cutline. The photo showed Catherine, in a slinky halter top, gyrating opposite a tall, statuesque blond. They both seemed to be having a great time.
    Interesting, thought Lucy, turning her attention to the panel. It was on Internet reporting, and had been one of the first she had chosen when she filled out her conference registration form weeks ago in Tinker’s Cove. She knew the value of the Internet to a small-town reporter like herself and was eager to learn more ways to take advantage of it. So far she’d mostly used it to get statistics from state agencies. If she wanted to know how many cars were registered in town, or how many pounds of lobster had been landed over the past five years, or how many people were collecting social security, she could have the answer in a matter of minutes instead of the days it used to take to track down that information by telephone. The right person always seemed to be on vacation, or taking lunch, or in a meeting.
    Lucy knew she’d only scratched the surface, however. There was lots more information available, if only she knew how to access it. When the panelists got started, however, it soon became clear that they were talking about a different Internet than the one she had dabbled in. All three speakers had been spending way too much time in virtual reality, and had no idea how to relate to ordinary people. So they talked to each other, tossing around terms that nobody understood and making jokes that nobody got. She was longing for them to announce a break, when Sam Syrjala staggered into the room, dropped his briefcase on a chair, and