Father’s Day Murder by Leslie Meier Page A

bar was more than she could handle. When someone bumped into her from behind and she narrowly avoided a potentially disastrous collision with a woman holding a glass of red wine, Lucy decided she’d had enough of this crowd scene. It was great if you knew these people, she supposed, but she didn’t. She was being pushed and shoved, the noise was deafening, and she was pretty sure all the oxygen was being used up. It was time to find her table and sit down.
    The registration table, where late arrivals were still picking up name tags and packets, was set up in front of a pair of double doors, which Lucy assumed gave entry to the grand ballroom. The doors were shut, but Lucy didn’t think anyone would mind if she slipped inside, out of the fray. She reached for the ornate gold handle and in a moment she was through, grateful for the rush of cool, fresh air. She leaned against the closed door for a moment while she recovered from the crush and got her bearings.
    â€œDon’t think you’re going to get away with this!”
    She snapped her head up, shocked at the speaker’s angry tone. It was Junior Read, of all people, apparently very upset about something. He was facing his father, jabbing a finger at his chest.
    Lucy gasped in shock at his behavior. It was the last thing she would have expected.
    â€œDon’t talk to me like that,” roared Luther, equally angry. “Who do you think you are, anyway? What gives you the right? I’ve put my lifeblood into this company for over forty years.”
    The two men were surrounded by a small knot of people, all of whom were focused on their argument and unaware of her entrance.
    Unaware, that is, until she dropped her beaded evening purse, which landed noisily on the polished parquet floor. Then all eyes were suddenly on her. Junior, Catherine, Luther, Monica, even Sam Syrjala, were all staring at her, as well as several others she didn’t recognize. Her eyes darted around the room and she immediately realized her mistake. This was not the grand ballroom; it was a private function room set up for a small group of people.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” she stammered. “I’m in the wrong room.”
    Seconds later she was on the other side of the door, fanning her flushed face. What a faux pas, she realized, spotting the placard announcing Pioneer Press Group: Private. The Reads were obviously hosting a prebanquet cocktail party for invited guests, and she’d barged in like a gate crasher. How humiliating.
    â€œHi, Lucy! Where have you been hiding? I’ve been looking all over for you.”
    It was Ted, and Lucy had never been so happy to see him.
    â€œI was looking for you, too, but I couldn’t find you in this crowd.”
    â€œThey’re opening the doors, finally,” he said, pointing to the opposite end of the mezzanine. “Let’s get our table, shall we?”
    â€œGood idea,” agreed Lucy as the crowd surged forward.
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    The grand ballroom was indeed grand, thought Lucy as she surveyed the enormous cream-and-gilt-trimmed space. Scores of tables topped with spotless linen cloths and covered with glittering silver and stemmed goblets filled the lower level, which was ringed with a balcony, where even more tables were arranged behind an ornately curlicued black-and-gold railing. Enormous crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and smoked mirrors lined the walls. She had never seen anything so gorgeous in her life; she felt as if she’d stepped into the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. Not that she’d been there, of course, but this was how she imagined it must be.
    â€œWhat number are we?”
    Ted’s voice brought her back to reality.
    â€œTwenty-one, I think.”
    They cruised around the room, checking the numbered cards set in metal holders on each table, and exchanging pleasantries with people Ted knew. It didn’t take long for Lucy to realize her dress was all wrong;