Father’s Day Murder by Leslie Meier Page B

briefcase. It wasn’t even locked; the flap was loose. It wasn’t really violating his privacy to look inside; Syrjala had left it unattended. Why, in his condition, he might have dropped it and spilled the contents for anyone to see.
    Maybe that was what she should do, thought Lucy. Just kind of knock it off the desk and see if anything spilled out.
    No, she decided, if she was going to do it she might as well do it thoroughly. She spread the two sides apart and peered into the briefcase.
    It was empty. No papers, no books, nothing, except for the side pocket, where she found a pint bottle of bourbon with about an inch remaining in the bottom.
    Lucy suddenly felt very foolish. The man was an alcoholic; he had to stash his booze somewhere. What better place than a briefcase? Especially at a conference where most everyone was carrying one. She picked up the phone and asked to be connected to his room.
    â€œâ€™Lo!”
    â€œMr. Syrjala?”
    â€œYuh.”
    â€œI have your briefcase. You left it in the conference room.”
    There was silence; then Sam spoke. “Who are you?”
    â€œLucy Stone.”
    â€œWith Ted? From Maine?”
    â€œThat’s me,” said Lucy, surprised that he knew who she was.
    â€œWell, uh, could you bring it to my room? I’m not feeling so well.”
    Lucy considered. This could be an opportunity to ask a few questions. Syrjala was drunk; he might also be loose-lipped.
    â€œWhat’s your room number?”
    Lucy jotted it down on the notepad thoughtfully provided by the hotel and hung up. Then, before she could change her mind, she took the elevator down to the fifth floor, where she ran straight into Harold. Once again she was struck by the family resemblance. He looked like a shorter, stockier Luther. Where Luther had been relaxed and open, however, his brother was all business.
    â€œI’m Harold Read,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Sam told me you’ve got something of his.”
    â€œI’m Lucy Stone,” she said, taking his hand. “He left his briefcase downstairs.”
    Harold didn’t let her go, but held on to her hand, squeezing her fingers painfully.
    Lucy’s eyes widened. “What do you think—”
    â€œYou were on the down elevator.”
    His grip softened, and Lucy pulled her hand away.
    â€œSo what? I had to go to my room to call him and find out his room number.”
    â€œOr maybe you’re some sort of snoop.” Harold’s eyes were flat and accusatory.
    â€œI’m doing the man a favor,” said Lucy, meeting his stare as she handed over the briefcase. She didn’t know where she found the nerve, but she wasn’t going to admit anything to this horrible man. Certainly not that she had searched the briefcase.
    â€œMaybe,” admitted Harold, holding the briefcase with two hands. “Of course you are.” He paused. “We’re all pretty upset. I didn’t mean to be rude.” He glanced at the door to Syrjala’s room. “Sam’s not really up for company. He’s taking my brother’s death very hard.”
    That was one interpretation of Sam’s behavior, but not one Lucy necessarily agreed with. She wasn’t about to argue, however. She just wanted to get away.
    Harold pushed the elevator call button and waited with her.
    â€œI expect you’ll want to get back to the panel. Internet reporting, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œInteresting subject. So much potential.”
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    The elevator doors opened.
    â€œHave a good day,” said Harold.
    â€œThanks,” said Lucy.
    But as the door closed and the elevator descended, Lucy wondered what was going on. Harold must have been in the room with Syrjala when she called, and had gone out in the hallway to meet her. Did he want to hide Syrjala’s condition from her? That hardly explained his hostile behavior, accusing her of