Gobble, Gobble Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Lucy was uncharacteristically somber when she got to the office, prompting Ted to comment on her glum expression.

  “Pretty rough morning?” he asked in a sympathetic tone. Ted was the owner, publisher, editor, and chief reporter for the weekly paper.

  “Who was it?” asked Phyllis, chewing on the earpiece of the jazzy reading glasses that either hung from a chain to rest on her ample bosom or perched on her nose. Phyllis’s official title was receptionist, but she also handled ads, classifieds, and event listings.

  “Alison Franklin,” said Lucy, hanging up her barn coat on the coat rack.

  “Ed Franklin’s daughter?” asked Ted.

  “That’s what they say. I don’t know much about Ed Franklin apart from the permitting process for his big house.”

  “That was quite a show, wasn’t it?” said Ted, who had relished the controversy that prompted so many heated letters to the editor.

  “She hasn’t been officially identified,” said Lucy, “but one of the EMTs recognized her.”

  “Well, write up what you’ve got,” ordered Ted. “We’ll say ‘tentatively identified as’.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy with a sigh, sitting down at her desk and booting up her PC.

  It was an old machine and slow to wake up in the morning, so while she waited she mulled over possible leads for the story. Her eyes roamed around the familiar office, where an old Regulator clock hung on the wall above Ted’s rolltop desk, which he’d inherited from his grandfather, a legendary small-town journalist. Wooden blinds rattled at the window and a little bell on the door jingled whenever anyone came in. Entering the office was like taking a step back in time, she thought, wishing for a moment that such a thing was really possible. If only the clocks and calendars could roll backwards to yesterday, then Alison would still be alive.

  Lucy’s computer announced with a whirr that it was up and running and she got to work.

  * * *

  When the paper came out on Thursday the story was front page news, but of course everyone in Tinker’s Cove had already heard about Alison Franklin’s fatal mishap. News, especially bad news, traveled fast in town, and the tragedy was the main topic of conversation in Jake’s Donut Shack when Lucy arrived for her weekly breakfast date with her friends.

  “Such a shame, a young girl like that with her whole life before her,” declared Norine, the waitress, greeting Lucy when she entered the busy little café. “Your friends are already here,” she added with a nod toward the table in the back where the group regularly gathered.

  The four women had begun the weekly breakfast meetings as a way of keeping in touch when their children had grown and they no longer ran into each other at Little League games, bake sales, and PTA meetings.

  “So young and so very rich, too,” offered Sue Finch. With a perfectly manicured hand, she tucked a glossy lock of hair behind one ear. “Her father is enormously wealthy. Fortune Five Hundred wealthy.”

  “Money doesn’t guarantee happiness,” said Lucy, slipping into the vacant seat and greeting her friends with a smile.

  “That’s so true,” said Pam Stillings, speaking from experience. She was married to Lucy’s boss, Ted, and had wholeheartedly supported her husband’s struggle to continue publishing the Pennysaver despite competition from the Internet, dwindling advertising revenues, and ever-increasing production costs. “Good health, family, friends—those are the things that really matter.”

  “Pam’s right,” said Rachel Goodman, who was married to Bob Goodman, a lawyer with a busy practice in town. “Simply possessing money doesn’t guarantee happiness. In fact, it can cause lots of problems—guilt, lack of responsibility, family disruption.” She had majored in psychology and had never gotten over it.

  “I certainly wouldn’t want to swap places with Alison’s parents, not even if they had all the money in the world,” said Lucy, glancing up as Norine approached with her order pad in hand. “But there’s a big difference between having enough money and not having it.” Her tongue went to the new crown she’d recently had to get when a tooth broke, spending the money she’d been saving to buy a new family room sofa.

  “Okay, ladies. The usual for everyone?” asked Norine with a raised eyebrow. “Sunshine muffin for Rachel, granola yogurt for Pam, hash and eggs for Lucy, and”—she paused for a disapproving little snort—“black coffee for Sue.”

  Receiving nods all round, she retreated to place the order and returned moments later with a fresh pot of coffee. “You know,” she said, filling Lucy’s mug, “I’ve heard people saying that girl committed suicide. She must’ve wanted to die to go out on that thin ice.”

  Lucy shook her head, unwilling to entertain such an idea. “I don’t think so. I hope not,” she said, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. “That would be too sad.”

  “Depression is an insidious disease,” said Rachel, adding a dab of cream to her freshly filled mug. “And so often it goes unrecognized and untreated.”

  “It was most likely an accident,” said Pam, stirring some sugar into her coffee. “The ice might’ve looked much stronger than it actually was. People get fooled. We have an accident like this every winter. Remember last year, when Lydia Volpe had a close call? Her dog fell through and she tried to save the beast. Luckily for her, Eddie Culpepper saw them struggling and managed to get them out.”

  “That was the first thing I thought of, but there was no sign of a dog or anything like that,” said Lucy as Norine arrived again and began distributing their orders.

  “That’s why folks are saying it must’ve been suicide,” insisted Norine, putting down Lucy’s plate with a thump that made the toast jump. “Or maybe she was high on something and thought she could walk on water.”

  “It looked to me like she was out for a run. She was dressed for a run,” said Lucy, who was staring at the pair of sunny-side-up eggs sitting on top of a mound of hash and thinking she really didn’t want eggs this morning. Truth was, she hadn’t really had much appetite at all since she’d discovered Alison’s body.

  “I guess we’ll never know,” said Norine, tenting the little bill and setting it on the table.

  “It comes at a bad time for Ed Franklin,” said Sue. “His new wife is expecting a baby. Due any day from the looks of her.”

  “His wife’s pregnant?” asked Lucy, doing some quick math. “If Alison was twenty, isn’t it rather late to be adding to the family?”

  “How old is this latest wife?” asked Pam.

  “About Alison’s age, I’d say,” said Sue. “I saw her at the salon when I was getting these highlights.” She tossed her head. “Expensive highlights, I might add, not that any of you have noticed.”

  “I noticed,” said Pam, dipping her spoon into her yogurt. “I thought your stylist missed a few bits.”

  “Monsieur Paul does not miss any bits,” said Sue, not the least bit amused. “And he was making an enormous fuss over the newest Mrs. Franklin. Mireille’s her name. She’s very young, very beautiful, and very pregnant.”

  “Exactly how many Mrs. Franklins are there?” asked Lucy.

  “At least two, according to Monsieur Paul. There’s Alison’s mother, who must be at least fifty or so, and Mireille, who I doubt is old enough to buy a bottle of wine. Not that she would have any business buying wine, not in her condition.”

  “That does muddy the waters, doesn’t it?” mused Rachel. “Imagine what it would have been like for Alison to have a stepmother who is her own age.”

  “And pregnant,” said Pam.

  “A constant reminder of this young stepmother’s allure,” said Rachel. “Not to mention her father’s sexual potency.”

  “Yuck,” said Pam.

  Yuck indeed, thought Lucy, pushing her plate away. She thought of the Franklin home, the mansion perched high above the roiling sea below, and wondered what emotions were in play behind those massive walls, and if some primal forces drove Alison to her watery grave.

  * * *

  When L
ucy got to work later that morning she discovered Ted had a completely different take on Alison Franklin’s death.

  “You know, Lucy,” he said as she shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the coat rack, “I’ve been getting a lot of calls about this Alison. People are upset and most of them blame drugs. That’s what they’re saying—that we have to stop this heroin epidemic that’s claiming our young people.”

  “It’s true,” said Phyllis. “We’ve had at least three calls this morning.”

  “I’ve had some e-mails, too,” said Ted.

  “I’ve heard that theory, too, but I don’t think it was drugs, Ted,” said Lucy, remembering the hot pink fleece jacket and the running shoes. “I think she was out for a run.”

  “Lucy, people don’t run on thin ice.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know about the way ponds freeze. Not everybody grows up knowing these things. Maybe she’s a city kid. Maybe she made a very bad mistake. It happens—like when that trucker tried to take his semi under the old railroad overpass last month and got stuck.”

  “That was quite a hoot,” said Phyllis. “ ’Course, nobody dies of embarrassment.”

  “Well, all I know is that a lot of people are blaming this opioid epidemic and want some answers. It’s about time we put Jim Kirwan on the spot and ask what he’s doing to stop these senseless deaths.”

  “You want me to call the police chief?” asked Lucy, sitting down at her desk.

  “Good idea, Lucy,” said Ted as if it hadn’t been his idea all along.

  “Okay,” said Lucy, anticipating the chief’s reaction, “but he’s not going to be happy.”

  As she expected, Chief Kirwan was immediately defensive when she asked what his department was doing to combat the opioid epidemic. “As you well know, Lucy, we are not the only town coping with this influx of drugs. Heck, it’s a national problem. It’s complex. There’s high unemployment among youth, limited prospects for kids who don’t go to college, folks can’t get ahead, and heroin is cheap and plentiful. Truth is, it’s easier for kids to get illegal drugs than to buy a six-pack. It’s not like we’re ignoring the problem. We’ve got a new program with the courts—we don’t prosecute if the addicts agree to go to rehab . . . but oftentimes there’s no rehab places available.” He sighed. “Facts are facts. We’re a small department with very limited resources and we’re doing all we can.”

  “I know,” said Lucy in a sympathetic tone. “People are upset over this latest thing. You know . . . Alison Franklin’s death.”

  “Well, people shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” he said in a sharp tone. “The investigation is still ongoing and the cause of death has not been determined. We don’t know if drugs were involved and we won’t know until the toxicology results come in from the ME’s office.”

  “When will that be?” asked Lucy.

  He snorted. “I wish I knew. The state lab is underbudgeted and understaffed.”

  “I won’t hold my breath then. Thanks,” said Lucy, ending the call.

  “Just as I expected,” said Ted, who had been listening to Lucy’s end of the call. “The same old, same old.” He paused. “Well, we’re not going to settle for lame excuses. I want to know what Alison’s family has to say. I bet Ed Franklin wants some answers and he’s the kind of guy who gets ’em.”

  “Ted, you’re not going to make me call him, are you? The man just lost his daughter. . . .”

  “And I bet he wants people to know what a wonderful girl she was, and how much he loved her,” said Ted.

  “The poor man must be beside himself with grief,” protested Lucy.

  “That’s funny,” observed Phyllis. “You called him poor, but he’s not poor. He’s probably the richest man in the state.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Lucy, glaring at Phyllis.

  “There’s no rush,” said Ted. “You’ve got till next Wednesday. Give him a call next week . . . when he’s had some time to get over it.”

  People don’t get over an unexpected, violent, tragic death of a loved one in a few days, thought Lucy, biting her tongue. Sometimes Ted got so involved in a story that he lost all sense of perspective or even decency. But noticing how he was hunched over his computer keyboard pursuing truth and combating evil one keystroke at a time, she admitted it was that determination that kept him going.

  “Okay, I’ll do it Monday,” she said, booting up her computer to check her e-mails.

  As it happened, she didn’t have to wait until Monday to call Ed Franklin. She was just about to leave the office later that afternoon when the door flew open, setting the little bell to jangling, and the man himself walked in.

  Lucy had never seen him in the flesh, but everybody had seen photos of the billionaire who was frequently in the news. He was most often featured in the business pages, announcing the construction of a new condo tower, golf course, or gambling casino. These projects were always described as fabulous, luxurious, or magnificent. Ed Franklin was a man who went in for superlatives and did everything in a big way.

  The man himself, however, was shorter than she expected, although that mane of silver hair and the ruddy complexion were unmistakable. So was the expensively tailored suit that couldn’t quite conceal his paunch. “Who’s in charge here?” he demanded in the raspy voice she’d heard on TV.

  “That would be me,” said Ted, jumping to his feet. “I’m Ted Stillings. How can I help you, Mr. Franklin?”

  “Look here,” said Franklin, plunging right in. “I’ve had it with all this political correctness, this so-called tolerance. It’s time we put a stop to these Mexican drug traffickers bringing heroin and marijuana here and poisoning our kids. Where is the outrage? There’s supposed to be a war on drugs, but if this is how we fight a war . . . well, it’s no surprise we’re not winning. I’m going to get straight to the point. This is what I want you to do—I want you to run an exposé of this filthy business. Let people know where these drugs are coming from and how we can stop it. I speak from personal experience here. I just lost my daughter. A beautiful girl. Gorgeous, and smart, too. I know what I’m talking about. It’s these filthy Mexicans and we’ve got to get them out of the country.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” said Ted, stunned by Franklin’s outburst. “We all are,” he added with a wave in Lucy and Phyllis’s direction.

  “You have our sympathy,” said Lucy.

  “You’re in our thoughts and prayers,” added Phyllis.

  “That’s neither here nor there,” said Franklin in a gruff tone, brushing aside their condolences. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  “It’s not clear that your daughter died because of drugs,” said Lucy. “The toxicology tests haven’t been completed.”

  “Well, what else could it be?” demanded Franklin. “She had everything to live for. And I mean everything. Looks. Money. Connections. Everything.”

  “As it happens, we did call Chief Kirwan today, asking tough questions about the current opioid epidemic,” said Ted.

  “That’s a start,” said Franklin, “but you’ve got to take it further. We have to get to the source and cut off this vicious trade. It’s these Mexicans. They’re like a plague, swarming across the border, bringing death to our kids and destroying our American values. Our American way of life.” He paused and looked around the office, taking in the worn and shabby atmosphere. “Look, see here. I’m a businessman and I know these are bad times for newspapers. I’m always looking for good investments and I see a lot of potential here. What you need is capital so you can expand. Maybe start a magazine, an online edition of the paper. Hell, the sky’s the limit if you’ve got vision and the cash to make it a reality.”

  “We’re doing just fine the way we are,” said Ted, his dander rising. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Ted . . . you don’t mind if I call you Ted, do you?” Franklin asked, continuing without pause. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of guys like you. Frankly, I think you’re one of th
ose guys who’ll go down with the ship, blaming the tides and currents. But you could be the captain of your destiny, if you’d take my advice. This is an issue that could make a dinky small town paper like yours into a national player.” He shrugged. “But have it your way. There’s nothing wrong with being a big frog in a small pond, if that’s all you want to be.” With that parting shot, Ed Franklin pushed the door open, making the little bell jangle, and let it slam behind him, causing the wooden blinds on the plate glass window to slap against the glass.

  “Wow, he’s a noisy guy,” said Phyllis, smoothing her angora sweater over her chest.

  “I’m pretty sure we haven’t heard the last of him,” said Lucy.

  “Did he actually call me a big frog?” asked Ted, looking puzzled.

  CHAPTER 3

  Several days later, Lucy found herself in the basement meeting room at the town hall, covering the weekly meeting of the board of selectmen. The town meeting voters were a thrifty lot and didn’t go in for frills so the room where the town’s business was conducted was a very plain affair. The concrete block walls had been painted yellow a long time ago, perhaps in a misguided effort to lighten the gloom, but instead made everyone look slightly jaundiced. Fluorescent lights, rows of beige metal chairs, and gray industrial-strength floor tile certainly didn’t help.

  The detail that always amused Lucy, however, was the little raised platform where the five selectmen sat behind a long table. The platform was a mere six inches high, allowing the citizens in attendance to get a clear view of these elected officials while ensuring that they didn’t get above themselves. Behind the table an American flag stood in one corner and the Maine state flag in the other. There were nameplates on the table for each selectman, as well as a microphones, now that the meetings were televised on local cable TV.