Father’s Day Murder by Leslie Meier Page B

most of the women were wearing beaded cocktail dresses or long evening gowns. In fact, she realized when they finally found their table and sat down, every single woman at the banquet was dressed in some variation of black. Black silk, black chiffon, black with beads, black with rhinestones, short black cocktail dresses, black evening dresses, and even black pantsuits. All black. There was no way she was going to get lost in this crowd, not in her pink-and-orange poppy print. In fact, she couldn’t have chosen a dress that would make her stand out more.
    â€œDo you want something to drink?” asked Ted.
    â€œI’d love it,” said Lucy, only to have her hopes dashed when Ted raised his arm and signaled a busboy holding a pitcher of water.
    She sipped her water, trying not to feel self-conscious, and smiling at the others who joined them at their table. The room was noisy and she couldn’t always catch the names, but Ted seemed to know everyone. There was a middle-aged couple from New Hampshire, a serious-looking man with glasses accompanied by two young fellows she guessed were rookie reporters, the glum-looking woman with a weight problem who had snubbed Lucy in the hospitality suite, and a pleasant older couple who sat next to Lucy.
    â€œI’m Harriet Sims and this is my husband, Herb. We publish the Aroostook Recorder,” said the woman, who Lucy was relieved to see was wearing black with white polka dots. “Love your dress, dear. I don’t know why everybody dresses as if they’re going to a funeral.”
    â€œI’ve been to livelier funerals,” grumbled Herb. “Five hours from now we’ll be sitting here with nothing and Pioneer Press Group will grab all the awards.”
    â€œNow, you know that’s not true. Ted’s getting an award, aren’t you, Ted?”
    â€œAnd so is Lucy,” added Ted.
    â€œHow wonderful!” enthused Harriet. “I bet it’s for a human-interest story.”
    â€œActually, it’s about the new fishing regulations and their impact on Maine fishermen.”
    Harriet’s eyes widened. “My goodness! Such a depressing topic.”
    â€œFishing’s over,” said the serious man with glasses. “Times change. It’s a different economy. Fishermen are going the way of the farmers and the lumberjacks and the railroad engineers.”
    â€œWe’re next,” said Herb. “The independently owned small-town newspaper is fast going the way of the dodo.”
    â€œIt’s not just the small papers,” said the overweight woman. “Look at Pioneer. Now they’re gong to be part of National Media. It’s the big fish swallowing the medium fish that swallowed the little fish.”
    â€œI heard that might not happen,” said the man with glasses, capturing everyone’s interest.
    â€œReally? I thought it was a done deal,” said Ted.
    â€œMe, too,” agreed Herb.
    The man with glasses kept them waiting while he took a long drink of water. “Nope,” he finally said. “What I hear is that the old man is having second thoughts, now that Monica Underwood is in the picture. Seems she’d like nothing better than a friendly chain of newspapers for spouting her political views. Let’s face it, the folks at National Media aren’t going to be sympathetic to her tree-hugging, ‘takes a village to raise a child,’ universal-health-care politics.”
    â€œSo you think Luther Read has changed his mind about the sale?’ asked Lucy.
    â€œThat’s what I hear—and the family’s not too happy about it, especially Junior. He’s wanted to cash out for years. Of course, it’s good news for the lesbian daughter; she gets to keep her feminazi rag, and Luther’s brother Harold keeps his lock on the Manchester Republican.”
    Lucy’s ears were burning. She didn’t like hearing people she admired spoken of so