He was walking along the side of the road with his head down, shoulders hunched and hands in pockets. He didn’t seem to have any sense of purpose but was just shuffling along, giving the occasional pebble a half-hearted kick.

“Can we give you a ride?” asked Bill, yelling out the window as he slowed the car.

Startled, Tommy looked up, then shook his head. His face was red and puffy, as if he’d been crying.

“Are you sure?”

Tommy nodded and there was nothing they could do but drive on. “I feel awful for him,” said Lucy, turning to watch his sad little figure straggling aimlessly along the empty road.

“Me, too,” said Bill.

Chapter 9

Weeks with Monday holidays were always hell at the Pennysaver and this week was worse than usual because of Mimi’s murder. Ted was already working the phone trying to track down Lieutenant Horowitz when Lucy got to work on Tuesday morning.

“You won’t get anything from him, anyway,” said Lucy, when he slammed down the receiver in frustration.

“Then I can write ‘no comment’ which is a lot better than ‘was unavailable for comment.’”

“What exactly is the difference?” inquired Phyllis, who was entering some last-minute classified ads into the computer.

“‘No comment’ means you at least got to talk to the guy; ‘unavailable for comment’ means he won’t even bother to speak to you. It’s a bigger put down,” said Lucy, who was flipping through her mail. There were lots of press releases but no anonymous letter; maybe the writer was busy over the holiday weekend. Or maybe, she realized with a start, Mimi was the writer. And if Fred had discovered the letters, it might have precipitated a fight that ended with her death.

“Thanks for that insight, Lucy,” said Ted, interrupting her train of thought. “Just for that you get to write Mimi Stanton’s obit.”

“That’s not fair,” protested Lucy, but Ted was already out the door.

“I guess he showed you,” said Phyllis. “He’s unavailable for comment.”

“Maybe Fred will be, too,” said Lucy, punching in the Stantons’s number. She hated interviewing bereaved family members; it was the hardest part of a reporter’s job and it was always worse when the deceased died suddenly, like in a car crash. The absolute worst, of course, was when the deceased was a victim of violence, like Mimi, and you suspected her husband of being the murderer.

“Hello.” The voice was male, but Lucy wasn’t sure if it was Fred or Preston or some other family member.

“This is Lucy Stone, at the Pennysaver. Could I speak to Fred Stanton, please?”

“Speaking.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice,” began Lucy. “Let me begin by telling you how sorry I am for your loss. We’ll all miss Mimi.”