Gobble, Gobble Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Attendance at the meetings had fallen off since people could watch the antics of the board members from the comfort of their homes, but a few stalwarts still showed up each week. Town curmudgeon Stan Wysocki was in his usual seat and local fussbudget Verity Hawthorne had brought her knitting. When things got slow at the meetings, Lucy sometimes entertained herself by wondering exactly what the shapeless mass of moss green that grew larger every week was meant to be. A sweater for a yeti? An afghan for a cow? A cozy for Verity’s aged Dodge?

  “Hi, Lucy,” said Corney Clark, slipping into the seat beside her. “I’m glad you’re covering this meeting.”

  “I cover them all,” said Lucy, stifling a yawn.

  “Well, tonight’s going to be worth your while,” said Corney, making her eyes quite large and giving a little nod that caused her expertly cut blond hair to rise slightly and then fall back exactly into place. “Big doings, that’s all I’m going to say.”

  “Give me a hint,” prompted Lucy, who knew Corney had a tendency to overstate. She was the executive director of the town’s chamber of commerce and worked tirelessly to promote area businesses.

  “Nope, you’ll just have to wait,” she said, turning to give an encouraging wave to a very tall, very thin, very distinguished looking man who had just entered the room.

  “Who’s that?” asked Lucy, who knew everyone in town and couldn’t place him, even though he looked familiar.

  “Rey Rodriguez,” said Corney.

  “Not the TV chef?” inquired Lucy, who had seen his show.

  “The very same,” said Corney with a smug smile.

  Perhaps this meeting would provide some surprises, thought Lucy, watching the board members file in.

  They were led by the chairman, Roger Wilcox, who was a retired army man and maintained his military bearing despite being well over seventy. Next in line was Joe Marzetti, another longtime member who owned the town’s IGA supermarket, followed by bearded and plump retiree Sam Bellamy and Winchester College professor Fred Rumford. The newest member of the board, Franny Small, brought up the rear.

  Poor Franny’s bottom had barely met her chair when Roger called the meeting to order, opening with the usual period for public comment. The public, being largely absent, had nothing to say, although there was a bit of a stir as some latecomers arrived. These were Police Chief Jim Kirwan, Fire Chief Buzz Bresnahan, both in uniform, along with Audrey Sprinkle from the board of health. The three seated themselves together in the front row, causing Rey Rodriguez to cast a questioning look in Corney’s direction. She responded with a smile and an encouraging thumbs up.

  This was interesting, thought Lucy, aware that the two chiefs rarely made appearances at board meetings unless there was a compelling reason, usually something involving public safety. Glancing at the agenda, she saw only routine business, which the board dealt with promptly. They voted to allow the Boy Scouts to erect a bench on the town green, approved the repair of a DPW truck, and authorized overtime for a police officer to provide traffic control at the upcoming Turkey Trot race.

  When Roger moved on to new business, Corney stood up. “I’m here tonight to introduce Mr. Rey Rodriguez, who I’m sure you all know from his TV show, Let’s Go Global, on the Food Channel. Rey is also the author of many best-selling cookbooks and is the culinary genius behind two highly regarded and successful restaurants in California, El Conquistador and Mission.”

  Corney paused and Rey Rodriguez rose, giving the board a polite little bow. “I am very happy to be here in Tinker’s Cove,” he said. “I have recently purchased a property, the Olde Irish Pub, and am looking forward to an exciting new chapter in my life in this most charming and beautiful part of the country.”

  “Well, on behalf of the board, I welcome you,” said Roger, looking a bit puzzled. “I assume you are planning to reopen the Olde Irish Pub? In that case, you will need to request a transfer of the current liquor license.”

  “Mr. Rodriguez is aware of the licensing requirements,” said Corney. “I just wanted to get the ball rolling as he is hoping to be open for Thanksgiving.”

  “That will be tight, but I think it’s doable,” said Roger. “We’ll need to consider the transfer at our next meeting. You should make sure to get it on the agenda so it can be posted. Mr. Rodriguez will have to supply some information, and we will need time to verify it, but if everything is in order I think we will be able to vote.”

  “That’s great news,” said Corney.

  “I do have a question,” said Franny. “Can you tell us what you have in mind for the pub?”

  “Will it be a Mexican restaurant?” asked Joe Marzetti. “Tacos and enchiladas, that sort of thing?”

  “And margaritas?” asked Sam Bellamy with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Not classic Mexican,” said Rey. “I am going to completely reimagine and renovate the present building, which will be known as Cali Kitchen. It will feature a sophisticated fusion menu using fresh, local ingredients cooked in imaginative ways while drawing on traditional cuisines including Asian, Southwestern, and even New England Yankee.”

  “That does sound impressive,” said Joe.

  “And delicious,” said Sam.

  “If I may,” said Police Chief Kirwan, rising to his feet. “I’d like to say a few words in support of Mr. Rodriguez.”

  “Of course,” said the chairman. “You have the floor.”

  “Well,” began Jim Kirwan, “Mr. Rodriguez has had discussions with me. He’s aware of the lack of employment opportunities for our young people and the fact that many turn to drugs and get themselves into trouble. He’s interested in setting up a program in cooperation with the department to offer employment to at-risk kids, setting them on the path to gainful employment in the restaurant industry. I have to say that this is something my department would welcome, as so often we see these youngsters getting themselves in deeper and deeper until they end up in the county jail.”

  Buzz Bresnahan was nodding along. He was a big, thoughtful man who never rushed into anything, but he offered his measured approval to the plan.

  “It’s not a secret that we have a big problem with opiate abuse here in town,” he said, rising slowly to his feet. “Every week my EMTs are called out to deal with overdoses, and sad to say, they’re not always successful in saving the victims. I’m in favor of absolutely anything that will help our youngsters.”

  “I don’t want to rain on this parade,” said Audrey Sprinkle. She was an attractive woman in her forties who was most often seen around town chauffeuring her three daughters to after-school sports events. “But am I the only one who sees a problem here? Where do these opiates come from? Mexico, right? And here we’ve got a . . . well, pardon my bluntness, but we’ve just had a terrible tragedy involving Ed Franklin’s daughter. Well, Ed, who’s chairman of the board of heath, couldn’t be here himself, obviously, but he asked me to come and express his concern about the influx of drugs from Mexico and here we have an applicant who is Mexican—”

  “Actually, I’m American,” interjected Rey with some amusement. “My ancestors have been here in the US since the fifteen hundreds. I am proud of my Hispanic heritage. I am actually descended from the Spanish explorer Juan Rodriguez de Castillo, but I am thoroughly American and proud of my service in the US Navy.”

  Audrey’s face reddened, but she hadn’t finished speaking. “I thank you for your service,” she said, “but as a mother, and speaking for a father who is going through unimaginable grief, I urge the board to be cautious about putting our kids, especially at-risk kids, under the guidance of a—um—newcomer. We need to be very careful.” She paused and turned to Rey. “This is nothing personal. It’s not against you. I’m just for our kids,” she added before sitting down.

  “Well, thank you for that,” said Roger. “As I said earlier, all liquor license applicants go through the same process and must provide proof of good character, financial information, and criminal records check. It’s quite a thorough vet
ting, I can assure you.”

  “If I may,” said Rey, “I’d like to reassure the board that I am a father and I share this lady’s concern. As it happens, my two children will be working at the restaurant. My daughter, Luisa, handles the business end of things, and my son, Matt, will run the kitchen. I will be the executive chef, creating menus and developing recipes, which I envision as a part-time position. I’m not so young anymore and I’m ready to let the youngsters take over.”

  “Quite understandable,” said Roger with an approving nod. “I do have one question, however. Why did you decide on Tinker’s Cove?”

  “Ah,” said Rey. “I have been a Californian all my life, but now, alas, I have had several bouts with skin cancer and my doctors tell me I must avoid the sun. Maine, it happens, is very cloudy and the sun hardly ever shines.”

  “Lucy,” hissed Corney, grabbing Lucy’s pen and stopping her note-taking, “don’t put that in your story!”

  * * *

  The old saw about the variable New England weather, that if you didn’t like it you should wait a minute, didn’t hold true on Saturday for Alison’s memorial service. The usually fickle sun put in a rare appearance, shining brightly in a clear blue sky as mourners gathered beneath the tall, white steeple in the simple clapboard Community Church.

  Zoe accompanied Lucy to the service. Although the two girls hadn’t been close, they were in the same class at Winchester College, located on the outskirts of town. Winchester was a small, liberal arts college that prided itself on fostering close relationships between students and faculty, and Lucy knew that Alison’s death would be deeply felt by the entire college community. Young people weren’t supposed to die, and Alison’s death had been completely unexpected, so grief was compacted by shock and disbelief.

  “It doesn’t seem real,” whispered Zoe as they stepped inside the dimly lit church. “I saw her on Tuesday. We sat together in American Lit. She had me laughing at the professor, imitating the way he said Thoreau’s name. ‘Not Thaw-row’, he said, ‘but thorough, rhyming with borough.’ The way she—” Zoe broke off with a sniff, and Lucy plucked a tissue from the little packet thoughtfully provided in the rack for hymnals and gave it to her. “It was just so funny,” continued Zoe, after giving her nose a good blow and wiping her eyes. “She was like that, and she was really nice, too.”

  “Death’s never easy,” said Lucy, “but it’s easier to accept if a person is very old and had a good life, or if they’ve been sick and suffering for a long time.”

  “It really makes you think,” said Zoe, and Lucy realized that this was probably the first time Zoe had truly confronted her own mortality.

  As Lucy expected, the church was crowded and they were lucky to squeeze into one of the rear pews. Unlike the usual Sunday crowd, who greeted each other and chatted until the choir appeared, singing the opening hymn, this congregation was quiet and somber. The organist, Ruth Lawson, was playing a variation on the old hymn, “Amazing Grace,” and Lucy followed the tune, letting it fill her mind and soothe her jumbled emotions.

  “For the Beauty of the Earth” was the opening hymn and Lucy had a tough time singing the familiar phrases, thinking of the intense emotion with which she’d greeted each of her children, and how bereft she’d feel if she lost any one of them. She hoped Alison had been loved like that, enfolded with love from her first breath.

  Lucy found her eyes straying to the bereaved family in the front pews.

  She recognized Ed Franklin, with that head of carefully styled white hair. His young wife, Mireille, was standing beside him, but Lucy could only catch a glimpse of her back. Her long blond hair was a dramatic contrast to her black coat.

  The hymn ended, but before the congregation could sing the final amen, a primal cry of pain and anguish disturbed the usual pregnant pause. All eyes were drawn to a sobbing woman in the front pew opposite the one occupied by Ed Franklin and his wife. She was supported by two men, one young and one middle-aged, as she collapsed into her seat and the sobs gradually subsided.

  “Her mother, Alison’s mother . . .” was the whispered message that rippled through the rather staid gathering of reserved New Englanders.

  Rev. Margery Harvey, the minister known to all as Rev. Marge, was quick to move things along, calling upon those present to join in prayer. When the Lord’s Prayer was completed, she thanked everyone for coming and offering their support to Alison’s family—her father, Ed Franklin, her mother, Eudora Clare, and her brother, Tag Franklin, as well as her stepmother, Mireille Franklin, and stepfather, Jon Clare.

  After a responsive reading of Psalm 23 the minister called upon Tag Franklin to deliver the eulogy. Tag was the young man who had attended Alison’s mother, and he bore little resemblance to his sister. He was taller, had a more muscular build, and the shock of hair that fell across his brow was light brown. With his wide-set eyes, a straight nose, and very white teeth he looked as if he could have come straight out of a Lands End catalog.

  He began with the usual fond remembrances of a shared childhood, occasional pranks, and even a few funny stories that elicited amused chuckles. But then his tone grew sharper, even accusatory when he directed his gaze at his father and said, “I wish I could say that my sister’s brief life was happy and untroubled, but instead of receiving the unconditional love and support she desperately needed she encountered only selfishness. When she needed a warm embrace she got a cold shoulder, when she needed encouragement she got criticism, and when she most needed fatherly approval to sustain her she discovered that attention had been withdrawn and directed to another. Her beauty, her shining spirit, her intelligence, all went unnoticed and unappreciated.”

  Shocked, Lucy glanced at her daughter and saw with some surprise that Zoe was nodding along in agreement, brushing away a tear.

  Then they were on their feet, singing the final hymn, “We Will Gather at the River.” Lucy finally got a clear view of Alison’s mother, Eudora, who was a tiny, very thin woman. Due to a puffy bouffant hairstyle, her head seemed much too large for her emaciated body. She was leaning heavily on her son and the other man, presumably her husband, Jon Clare. Unlike the hale and hearty Tag, Jon Clare was a lanky, weedy sort, with a narrow head, thinning hair, and long arms and legs.

  “Do you want to go to the reception?” Lucy asked her daughter, who was stuffing a wad of damp tissues into her purse. “We could skip it. With all these people I don’t think we’ll be missed.”

  “Oh, no. I want to tell her folks how kind she was to me. You know, when I had that flu last month and missed some classes she offered to go over her notes with me.” Zoe sniffed. “She didn’t have to do that, you know.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy as the usher released them from their pew, allowing them to join the stream of mourners leaving the church. She had been relieved when the pastor announced the interment of the ashes would be private, unsure of how Zoe would react to the grim business of seeing an entire human being reduced to a mere pile of dust. But, like most everyone at the funeral, she was somewhat curious and eager to see the interior of the Franklin mansion.

  Shore Road was already lined with parked cars when Lucy and Zoe arrived, but it was a mild day and it was pleasant walking along the rocky bluff overlooking the ocean. Far below, the surf crashed against the rocks, sending up sprays of sparkling water.

  The family was not yet present, still occupied with the burial, which loosened the usual sense of restraint felt by the gathered friends and neighbors. People were greeting each other with warm hugs, chattering vivaciously and helping themselves to the generous catered buffet. Zoe went straight to the reception line, which was already forming, while Lucy accepted a small cocktail sherry from the tray offered by a waiter in a crisply starched white shirt. She was making her way through the throng to the corner where her friends Sue and Rachel were standing, when a hush fell on the crowd and Ed and Mireille Franklin entered.

  Ed held up his hand in greeting and said, “Thank you all for coming. The sup
port of so many friends and neighbors means the world to me and Mireille.”

  Mireille, who was standing by his side, was remarkably pretty, very young, and extremely pregnant. She didn’t speak but bestowed a sad little smile on her assembled guests.

  “There is something I feel I must say,” continued Ed. “My son, Tag, is no doubt deeply grieving the loss of his sister and that is completely understandable. However, I want to make it clear that Alison was a much loved daughter and both Mireille and I are devastated by this tragic turn of events. It was just this time last year when Alison had her biking accident, and unfortunately became dependent upon prescription painkillers. Mireille was a rock in those dark days and got Alison into rehab, but as often happens, recovery wasn’t a simple process and wasn’t as successful or complete as we hoped and it seems that Alison began using illegal opioids. These drugs are insidious, terribly hard to beat, and the dealers are relentless.” He paused and swallowed hard. “Sometimes all the love in the world just isn’t enough. Thank you for your patience.”

  “Nice comeback,” said Sue, who had appeared at Lucy’s side, along with Rachel. They were both holding glasses of sherry.

  “I can see why he felt he had to say something,” said Lucy, noticing that Tag wasn’t present, and neither was his mother or stepfather.

  “Do you believe him—Ed?” asked Sue, sounding somewhat skeptical. “It doesn’t sound realistic to me—the trophy wife doting on the stepdaughter.”

  “I guess we have to give him the benefit of the doubt,” said Lucy.

  “Family members often have very different memories of important family events,” said Rachel. “A brother and a sister, for example, might have very different interpretations of a particular birthday party. The brother might remember eating cake while the sister was upset because there was no ice cream.”

  “Alison’s brother wasn’t talking about ice cream,” said Sue. “He seemed really angry about the way his father treated Alison.”

  “Or maybe he’s projecting his own feelings toward his father and the new, young wife who displaced his mother,” said Rachel.