Gobble, Gobble Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Ruth stopped short in the doorway. “But what about my car?”

  “You can pick it up tomorrow. I’ll drive you over if you want. But right now you’re in no state to drive.”

  “Well, I don’t know—” protested Ruth.

  “I do,” said Lucy, giving her a hug. “You’ve had a traumatic experience and you’re in shock.”

  “So much blood,” said Ruth, allowing herself to be led out of the shack and across the parking lot to Lucy’s SUV. “I never saw so much blood.”

  “It was awful.” Lucy opened the passenger side door and helped Ruth climb in.

  She sat passively while Lucy fastened the seatbelt.

  Then Lucy went around the car, got behind the wheel, fastened her own seatbelt, and started the car. “Did you see anyone near Ed’s car? Anyone at all?” she asked as she backed out of the parking space.

  “No. I saw that bunch at the pub, the old pub, and wondered what it was all about. It made me think twice about parking at the harbor. I almost went back to my car to park it somewhere else. I was on my way to the church—I like to practice the hymns before Sunday, you know—and I knew I wouldn’t find a parking space there because the volunteers would be cleaning up after the Harvest Festival and folks would also be parking there for the pep rally parade.” Ruth was gaining strength as she spoke, finding relief in the distraction of conversation.

  “The festival always attracts a big crowd and this year was no different,” said Lucy, turning onto Main Street just in time to see State Police Detective Lieutenant Horowitz’s unmarked car coming the other way, blue lights flashing.

  “The crafts are rather expensive, in my opinion,” said Ruth, eager for the distraction of chatting, “but of course it all goes to a good cause. I asked Sue Finch to save me a nice mince pie. They’re not very popular these days. I guess they’re rather strong tasting for a lot of people, very spicy you know, but they’re my aunt’s favorite and I always try to have one for her.”

  “My mother loved mince pie,” said Lucy, thinking that at this rate she’d never get any information from Ruth. “I made—well, actually it was my daughter who did the cooking. She made six dozen apple cider donuts.”

  “My goodness! That must have been quite a job.”

  “It was indeed, but she had help from a friend,” said Lucy, who was struggling to reconcile Link Peterson’s accusation against Matt with the agreeable guy who’d helped Zoe make the donuts. “I’m just curious. What made you look in Ed’s car? Did you see something suspicious? Did you hear anything? See anyone?”

  “I’m afraid I was just being nosey,” admitted Ruth. In a hushed voice she defended herself. “I’m not usually like that, you know, but I’d seen that car around town and I wondered what it was. It’s not like the other cars, you know, the ones like this one. You see a lot of these and I suppose they’re very nice and all . . .”

  “Do you mean SUVs?” asked Lucy, somewhat amused.

  “If that’s what they’re called, I suppose so. Hondas and Toyotas and Nissans . . . they’re all Japanese, aren’t they?”

  “Ford and Chevy make them. Jeep too. I think every car manufacturer makes SUVs. They’re very popular.”

  “Well, my father always used to say to buy American, and I’ve found my Dodge to be very satisfactory.”

  “They have a very good reputation,” said Lucy, turning into Ruth’s empty driveway. “But you were curious about Ed Franklin’s Range Rover?”

  “I was,” said Ruth, picking up her handbag and squeezing the handles. “It’s taller than the other UVS cars and it’s the only one that looks like that. I wondered what it was, so I walked over and saw it’s called a Range Rover. I think those are English or something.”

  “They are.”

  “I suppose they’re very expensive, since he is so rich,” said Ruth, suddenly realizing the need to correct herself. “Since he was so rich and all.”

  “I imagine so,” said Lucy.

  “I noticed that the windows are all tinted, not that I would have looked into the car. That’s sort of a private place. But the driver’s side window was down . . .”

  Actually, shattered by the bullet that killed Ed, thought Lucy.

  “Well, anyway, I could see right in and I wish I hadn’t,” concluded Ruth, reaching for the door handle.

  “Do you want me to come in? Just to make sure you’re all right.”

  Ruth looked at her with her muddy brown eyes and grabbed her hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “I don’t want to be any trouble, but it would be so kind of you.”

  “No problem,” said Lucy, hoping to get more information out of her.

  “You see, I never lock my door,” said Ruth as they walked up the path together toward the door, eerily illuminated by a yellow bulb that was not supposed to attract moths. “It always seems such a bother, but I suppose it’s rather foolish. Anyone could walk in and steal me blind.” Reaching the stoop, she paused. “Or worse.”

  Lucy knew that locked doors were a rarity in the little town where everybody knew everybody. “Well, I always think that if somebody wants to break in, a lock isn’t going to stop them.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Ruth, who had stopped in front of the closed front door. “I mean, even if Ed Franklin had locked the doors of his car, it wouldn’t have made any difference.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” agreed Lucy, wondering why Ruth wasn’t opening the door to her house. “Shall we go in?” she prompted.

  “I know there’s really nothing to fear but . . .”

  “I’ll go first,” said Lucy, turning the knob and switching on the light.

  The door opened into a small hall with a stairway; the floor had been painted gray and spattered with beige, yellow, and white in the old-fashioned style, and a braided rug served as a doormat. A prim and proper living room dominated by an upright piano was on one side of the hall, a dining room with a polished mahogany table holding a milk glass bowl of obviously fake fruit was on the other, with the kitchen behind.

  “Nobody here,” reported Lucy, after taking a quick look. “I’ll just run upstairs.”

  Upstairs she found two neat and tidy bedrooms, each with white ruffled curtains and a double bed covered with a white candlewick bedspread. She considered peeking in the closets and looking under the beds but decided that would be overkill. The house was definitely empty.

  Going downstairs she found Ruth in the old-fashioned kitchen where a small table with two chairs painted red sat on a linoleum floor beneath a plastic wall clock shaped like a rooster.

  Ruth was filling the kettle at the porcelain sink; an ancient red plastic dish drainer sat on the large drain board.

  “I think a cup of tea is called for,” she said. “All things considered.”

  “Absolutely,” said Lucy, suddenly drained of energy and sinking into one of the chairs. “And if you have any, I’d really love a cookie or two.”

  Ruth produced some homemade oatmeal-raisin cookies and Lucy nibbled on one while they waited for the kettle to boil. Ruth couldn’t seem to sit still and kept popping up to check the kettle and adjust the burner.

  “A watched pot never boils,” said Lucy with a smile.

  “I know. It’s just, well, I can’t help worrying.” Ruth paused, twisting her hands nervously. “You know, I’m a real fan of mystery shows on TV, and I know from watching them that the person who finds a body is always a suspect.”

  Lucy’s jaw dropped. “You think the police will suspect you of killing Ed Franklin?”

  “I’m afraid so,” admitted Ruth.

  Lucy glanced around the prim and neat house, and considered Ruth’s work as a church organist. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  Just then the kettle shrieked and Ruth grabbed a pot holder and snatched it off the stove.

  “That’s certainly a relief, Lucy,” she said, filling the teapot. “But just to be on the safe side, I think I’ll take my Glock into the station. They�
��ll be able to tell that it hasn’t been fired.”

  “Your Glock?” asked Lucy, shocked to her core.

  CHAPTER 10

  Lucy had enjoyed a half-dozen of Ruth’s homemade oatmeal cookies, but she hadn’t gotten any more information about her gruesome discovery. She had learned, however, that Ruth’s father had given her the Glock many years before, and Ruth went straight to the shooting range every Sunday after church to practice. She had blushingly admitted she was quite a good shot, a fact that Lucy was mulling over when she finally left to go home. She had made numerous calls to Ted to tell him about Ed Franklin, but the messages had all gone to voice mail.

  She was pouring herself a glass of chardonnay and wondering if Bill would be content with soup and sandwiches for supper when Ted finally called.

  “Are you sure about this? Ed Franklin is dead? Shot in his car in broad daylight?”

  “I’m sure,” said Lucy in a grim tone. “I saw him. Blood everywhere.”

  “Wow,” said Ted. “Any chance it was suicide?”

  She paused, forcing herself to recall the sight of Ed Franklin’s bloody body before she’d recoiled in horror and looked away. Ed was leaning away from the driver’s side window, and all that remained of the window were a few shards of glass.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “The driver’s side window was broken and Ed’s body was leaning away from the window. If he’d shot himself and the bullet also broke the window, I think he’d be leaning the other way. Also, I didn’t see a gun in the car with him, but I didn’t look for one, either. It was pretty gruesome.” She paused and gulped down some wine. “There was an anti-Mexican demonstration going on in front of the old pub. It was pretty noisy so I guess nobody heard the shot. Ruth Lawson discovered the body.”

  “The church lady?”

  “The organist.”

  “My word,” said Ted.

  “One of the demonstrators—it was actually Jason Sprinkle—claimed he saw Matt Rodriguez standing next to Ed’s car. Even claims he heard a popping sound, but Rey insists his son doesn’t have a gun.”

  “But he would have a motive,” said Ted. “Ed was giving the Rodriguezes a lot of trouble.”

  “I bet Ed Franklin gave a lot of people a lot of trouble,” said Lucy. “He was just like that. And don’t forget, this is the second death in the Franklin family in a couple weeks.”

  “What are you saying, Lucy? That there’s some sort of vendetta against the Franklins?”

  “I don’t know,” admitted Lucy. “But it’s certainly worth looking into.”

  * * *

  That was the question Lucy pondered all weekend, and the one she wanted to pose when she went to the District Attorney’s press conference on Monday morning, but she had to wait a good long while. The conference was late getting started as the conference room in the county complex proved too small for the large number of reporters assigned to cover the sensational death. Ed Franklin was a household name, known by one and all as typifying the American Dream of achieving success and untold wealth, and his murder was attracting a lot of interest.

  After everyone had relocated to a larger space, actually a vacant courtroom, Phil Aucoin began by introducing representatives from the various law enforcement agencies involved in the investigation and congratulating them at length on their spirit of cooperation. Then there was a bit of a flap until the press releases he planned to distribute were found, apparently mislaid in the switch. Once found, it took only moments for the reporters to read the few printed lines and begin loud demands for more information.

  “All this says is that Franklin was killed execution style by a person or persons unknown,” began Deb Hildreth, who worked for a local radio station. “Do you have a theory, a motive? Are there any suspects?”

  “I am unable to provide more information at this time,” said Aucoin, “as it might hinder the investigation.”

  “Do you think Franklin’s outspoken opposition to immigration might be the reason he was killed?” demanded Pete Withers, a stringer for the Portland Press Herald.

  “I can assure the public that we are following a number of leads,” said Aucoin.

  “Franklin was involved in a number of failed businesses and even filed for bankruptcy a couple times,” alleged Stan Hurwitz, from the Boston Globe. “Could the shooter be a disappointed creditor?”

  “Could be,” said Aucoin. “As I said, we’re following a number of leads.”

  “Any ties to organized crime?” asked another reporter, speaking with a thick New York accent. “There were rumors . . .”

  “There are always rumors about high-profile people,” said Aucoin.

  “What about his family?” asked Angela Hawkins, from NECN. “He had a very bitter divorce.”

  “Once again, we’re following a number of leads,” said Aucoin. “We will certainly be taking a look at everyone who had dealings with him, including his family.”

  Finally Aucoin pointed his finger at Lucy and she got her chance. “It’s quite a coincidence that his daughter, Alison, died in a suspicious manner just a few weeks ago. Do you think there may be a vendetta against the Franklin family?”

  The question caused quite a hubbub. Many of the reporters were new to the story and hadn’t known about Alison Franklin’s drowning and they began shouting questions.

  “What happened to the daughter?”

  “When was this?”

  “How did she die?”

  “Quiet down. One at a time.” Aucoin waited for the unruly crowd of reporters to settle down. When everyone was back in their seats and quiet restored, he spoke.

  “We have no reason to suspect foul play in Alison Franklin’s death.” He paused. “And with that, I’d like to thank you all for coming,” he said, ending the conference.

  Aucoin and the other officials made quick exits, leaving Lucy to deal with the out-of-town reporters’ demands for information about Alison’s death. “You can read about it on the Pennysaver website,” she said as mikes were thrust in her face.

  “C’mon, Lucy, just give us the gist,” urged the guy with the New York accent as she tossed her notebook into her bag and started to make her way through the crowd to the doorway.

  “I’ve got it!” crowed Pete Withers, peering at his smartphone and reading from Lucy’s story. “Right here. ‘Alison Franklin, daughter of billionaire Ed Franklin, drowned in local pond’ . . . blah blah blah . . . oh, get this. ‘DA Phil Aucoin cautioned that the cause of death has not been determined. In light of the recent opioid epidemic, he said he is waiting for toxicology test results from the state lab, but added that these tests are now routinely mandated for all unaccompanied deaths.’ ”

  “So they think little Alison overdosed?” asked the New Yorker, blocking Lucy’s path.

  “I have no idea,” said Lucy, shaking her head and trying to slide by him.

  “What do most people think? This is Hicksville. People talk. What are they saying?”

  “You’ll have to ask them,” said Lucy, finding a gap and slipping through.

  “Hey!” somebody yelled. “There’s Deb Hildreth. Ask her! She works for the local radio station.”

  Poor Deb, thought Lucy, abandoning her to the media scrum as she stepped into the airy lobby and the door closed behind her.

  It was a typical November day, gray and miserable, and Lucy’s spirits plunged as she made the drive from Gilead to Tinker’s Cove. It was horrible to think that things like this could happen in the little town that she loved. Alison’s death was bad enough—it was always awful when a young person died—but Ed’s brutal murder overshadowed everything. The man was shot in broad daylight, right in the heart of town. It seemed incredible that such a thing could happen. Who would do such a thing? And why? Whoever killed Ed must have really hated him, she thought, finding it difficult to imagine how anyone could simply pull a trigger and blow off another person’s head.

  Of course, it happened all the time. Gun shootings were common occurrenc
es in the US, and there were the constant reports of suicide bombings and assassinations and attacks on innocent people in Europe and the Middle East. Come to think of it, she decided with a sigh, it seemed that there were actually an awful lot of people who were not the least bit reluctant to take other people’s lives.

  * * *

  “Wow, you look like you lost your best friend,” observed Phyllis when Lucy arrived in the office later that morning. Phyllis was dressed today in a harvest-themed sweater featuring a design of apples and pumpkins, and her hair was tinted a flaming orange.

  “Not yet, but you never know, the way things are going,” Lucy said glumly, dropping her bag on the floor with a thunk so she could unbutton her jacket.

  “How was the press conference?” asked Ted, who was staring at his computer screen.

  “Crowded.” Lucy hung up her jacket, then bent down and picked up her bag. From the way she moved you would have thought it was filled with bricks. “There was even an obnoxious guy from New York and lots of people from TV stations.”

  “Well, Ed Franklin was famous,” said Ted. “Any new developments?”

  Lucy sank into her desk chair and leaned her elbow on her desk, propping up her chin as if her head was much too great a load for her neck to bear. “Killed execution style. I guess we could’ve come up with that on our own.”

  “Talk about stating the obvious,” muttered Ted. “No suspects?”

  “Aucoin’s playing his hand close to his chest,” said Lucy.

  “Dot Kirwan says it’s all hands on deck, overtime for everybody—vacations and off-time cancelled,” reported Phyllis. “She’s real upset since Patsy was scheduled for maternity leave next week. Now she’s going to have to work until she pops.”

  Patsy Kirwan was the police department dispatcher, just one of Dot’s many relations who worked in the town’s police and fire departments.

  “Of course, you can see why they’re so anxious to get the killer,” continued Phyllis. “Talk about cold-blooded. It gives me the willies every time I think about it.”

  In spite of herself, Lucy found herself smiling. “Somehow I don’t think we need to worry about getting shot in our sleep by some sort of serial killer maniac.”