Father’s Day Murder by Leslie Meier Page A

headed for the podium.
    â€œThe newspaper business sure ain’t what it used to be,” he proclaimed as he lurched down the aisle between the seats. Observing his unsteady progress, Lucy was pretty sure he was drunk. Again. At ten in the morning.
    Sam reached the podium and hugged it, causing consternation among the panelists, who didn’t seem to know what to do about this interloper.
    â€œUsed to be we called ’em like we saw ’em….” He shook his head slowly, as if it were a fragile container holding something precious. “Not anymore. Now if the cops arrest a black, we gotta ask if it’s racial profiling. If you’re writing about a woman, you gotta choose your words carefully: it’s single mother, not unmarried. There’s no more illegitimate kids, for God’s sake. Did you know that?”
    He stared blearily at the audience, challenging someone, anyone, to respond.
    â€œIt’s true,” he continued when no one spoke up. “Don’t ask me how, but even though these kids’ mothers never bothered to get married, the little bastards, they’re not illegitimate.”
    He let go of the podium and threw out his arms for emphasis, swaying crazily.
    â€œPC, political correctness, is gonna be the death of newspapers.” He held up a finger and waggled it in front of his eyes. “See if it isn’t,” he said, and rested his head on the podium.
    There was a buzz among the astonished audience members, and two of the panelists began an anxious, whispered conversation.
    â€œMaybe we’d better get him up to his room,” suggested one man, who was sitting in the front row.
    â€œGood idea,” said a second.
    They each took a side, lifting Syrjala’s arms over their shoulders and dragging him from the room.
    One of the computer experts was speaking, apologizing for the interruption, when Lucy noticed Syrjala’s briefcase, still propped on the chair where he had dropped it.
    â€œOh,” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “They forgot his briefcase. I’ll take it to him.”
    She was gone before anyone could object. It was only when she was safe in her room with the door closed behind her that she stopped to wonder what she was doing. Had she simply seized an excuse to leave the boring workshop, or did she hope to find evidence of some sort?
    She set the briefcase—a battered leather model, the old-fashioned kind with accordion sides and a leather flap with a brass catch that held it closed—on the desk and sat down on the foot of the bed to think.
    What did she hope to find? What did she think was inside? Papers, probably just papers. That’s what briefcases usually held. Company reports, maybe, from Pioneer Press Group. Financial statements, budgets, memos, all of which could shed light on the company and maybe even provide a motive for Luther Read’s murder. Sam and Harold were buddies, after all, and neither man agreed with Luther’s liberal approach. Harold was a dyed-in-the-wool New Hampshire conservative and Sam, well, whatever his politics were, they appeared to be pretty reactionary.
    Even more interesting, thought Lucy, both men would have had reason to oppose the sale of Pioneer Press Group to National Media. Sam, who clearly had a drinking problem, would most certainly be fired by the new owners. And Harold didn’t want to lose control of his newspaper, which gave him a powerful voice in national politics vis-à-vis the New Hampshire primary.
    Rumor was that the sale was off, but Lucy didn’t know if that was true. And even if it was, the two men might have worried that Luther would again change his mind. Had the two men teamed up to murder Luther, fearing he was becoming too unpredictable? Had they conspired with each other, coming up with the plan to trigger Luther’s asthma? If she opened the briefcase, would she find a full inhaler inside?
    Lucy looked at the