by Leslie Meier
“Lucy’s right,” said Ted. “Ed Franklin was targeted. He was killed because somebody wanted him dead.”
“Well, the one I feel bad for is that little wife of his,” said Phyllis. “She’s pregnant, you know, and even if she is a gold digger like everyone says, it must be awfully hard on her losing her husband like that. Of course, she’s probably going to make out fine financially and all.”
“That reminds me,” said Ted. “I bet AP’s got a file obit up for Ed Franklin. Want to check that for me, Lucy? Give it a local twist, get some quotes from the town’s movers and shakers.”
“Roger Wilco,” said Lucy, relieved to be given a simple, undemanding assignment. And besides, she was interested in learning more about Ed Franklin’s past. The past, she knew, often held the key to understanding the present and the obit did yield some surprising information.
It began with the usual summary of Ed Franklin’s achievements—graduated from Dartmouth where he played football, went on to Harvard where he earned an MBA, began climbing the corporate ladder, ending as CEO of Dynamo where his high-profile leadership style made him a household name. It was Franklin’s family history that caught her interest. His grandfather was a German immigrant, Emil Franck, who ran a beer hall on the Lower East Side of New York City. The beer hall was successful and he soon ventured into real estate, buying up tenements and renting them to Jewish and Italian newcomers in the early 1900s. His son, Ed’s father, was thus armed with a sizeable fortune and an ambitious wife who wanted to join the highest ranks of New York society, which necessitated obscuring his immigrant origins. He changed the family name from Franck to the more American-sounding Franklin, and his wife was soon invited to join the boards of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the New York Historical Society.
Lucy chuckled as she read this, wondering if Rachel would say Ed Franklin’s hatred of Mexican immigrants was an effort to compensate for his family’s immigrant past, which he somehow found embarrassing or shameful. It struck her as ironic that the man whose family fortune was originally built by exploiting newcomers to the country would become a proponent of anti-immigration policies. But maybe, she decided with a sigh, he only wanted to prohibit immigrants from Mexico and Latin America. Perhaps he would find Europeans more acceptable.
When it came to getting quotes from locals she decided to start with the folks he worked most closely with, his fellow members of the board of health. She was only able to reach one, Audrey Sprinkle, and had to leave messages with all the others, which she doubted would ever be returned.
Audrey was hesitant to say anything about Ed, perhaps fearing he would reach out from the grave in retaliation. “I don’t really know what to say except this is the most awful thing that’s ever happened here in Tinker’s Cove. My heart just goes out to his whole family, and that includes his first wife, Eudora. That poor woman has lost her daughter, too, you know.”
“I understand,” said Lucy in her most sympathetic voice, “but what was it like to work with him on the board of health?” She was dying to ask Audrey if she agreed with Ed’s anti-Mexican sentiments as her son Jason certainly did, but resisted the temptation, opting to stay in safer territory. “What was his leadership style?”
“Ah, well, I guess you could say he was a strong leader,” said Audrey. “But he always had the best interest of the town in mind.”
“I see,” said Lucy. “Any examples?”
“Sorry, Lucy, I’ve got to run,” said Audrey, ducking for cover. “There’s someone at the door.”
Moving right along to the board of selectmen, Lucy called the chairman, Roger Wilcox.
“A fine example of public-spirited service,” he said. “Ed Franklin donated untold hours to the town, giving us the benefit of his unparalleled business knowledge and abilities.”
“But weren’t some of his actions rather controversial?” asked Lucy.
“Dear me,” said Roger, “my wife wants me to walk the dog. Says it can’t wait.”
Joe Marzetti was always a safe bet for a quotable quote, but he didn’t have much to say about Ed Franklin, either, when she reached him at his supermarket. “Helluva businessman, I got a lot out of that book he wrote—Never Let ’Em See You Sweat: How to Win in Business and Life.”
“Did he apply here in Tinker’s Cove any of the concepts he wrote about in the book?” asked Lucy.
“Aw, gee. I gotta problem with one of the checkouts. Gotta go.”
Lucy plugged away, working down the entire list of town officials, but nobody seemed to have much to say about Ed Franklin. She knew Ted wouldn’t be pleased with the story, but she filed it just before leaving for the day, hoping to put off the inevitable rewrite.
* * *
When Lucy arrived on Tuesday morning, as she’d expected, Ted wanted more. “I know the guy’s dead, but this story needs some livening up. It doesn’t give the reader any idea of who Ed Franklin really was.” He leaned back in his chair, chewing his lip. “What about his family? You haven’t tried them.”
“Oh, Ted,” she protested. “They’ve got enough to deal with. I don’t want to bother them. Phyllis was right. His wife’s pregnant and her husband was shot . . .”
“She’ll probably welcome the opportunity to talk about her late husband. She’ll probably want everyone to know how wonderful he was.” He paused, smirking. “Lord knows, nobody else seems to have liked him.”
“Okay,” said Lucy, hoping the phone at the Franklin mansion was unlisted. Unfortunately for her, the automated 4-1-1 operator offered her the option of placing the call.
A woman answered the phone, and Lucy assumed she was a maid or some other employee, and after identifying herself asked to speak to Mrs. Franklin.
“Oh, poor Mireille. She’s taking a nap,” said the woman. “I’m her mom. Everybody calls me Mimsy. Maybe I can help you?”
Whoa, calm down, Lucy told herself, feeling as if she’d hit the mother lode. “Well, first of all, let me say how very sorry I am about your son-in-law’s tragic death. I’m working on an obituary for the local paper and I just wanted to give family members an opportunity to say how they’d like him to be remembered.”
“Ed was a great guy,” said Mimsy. “He was crazy about my Mireille, and you know, a big famous guy like him, not to mention rich. Well he didn’t need to, but, you know, he actually came to our house and asked my husband, Mireille’s father, you know, for her hand in marriage! Isn’t that the sweetest thing you ever heard? And it was especially nice since poor Sam was on his death bed. He had cancer and didn’t live to walk little Mireille down the aisle.”
Personally, Lucy thought it was probably a bit of a con, even going so far as to take advantage of a dying man, but she wasn’t about to say so. “That is amazing,” she said, doing her best to sound sincere. “Like he was just a regular guy.”
“Trust me, Ed Franklin was really a regular guy. You’d never know he was a big shot. And good to our little girl! You shoulda seen the diamond ring he gave her. It’s too bad she can’t wear it now. Her fingers are awfully swollen. She’s got it put away in a safe-deposit box. It’s too valuable to keep around the house. That’s what I told her. Better safe than sorry. After all, I told her, it may be the only thing she gets to keep, after that first wife of his gets through with her. She’s already contesting the will, you know.”
“Is she really? What a nerve!” replied Lucy, finding it only too easy to join this gossip fest.
“The way he left things, everything was to go to his children—poor Alison and the one Mireille’s expecting. In the case of only one child surviving, that child would scoop the loot. No children, then it’s a crap shoot. The executors have to distribute the estate equably, whatever that means.”
“But what about the older son, Taggart?”
“Taggart wasn’t actually his child. Ed adopted him when he married Eudora. Tag was from Eudora’s first marriage, and Ed said in the will that he had previously made generous settlements to him.”
“So Eudora doesn’t think it’s fair that Ed’s wealth all goes to Mireille’s baby?” asked Lucy. “That she and Tag don’t get anything?”
“You said it! She seems all fragile and sensitive and artistic but believe me, that woman is really a crazy bitch. The things she’s said to my Mireille! Vicious, nasty stuff. I’m not kidding. A mind like that, she really oughta be committed. Scary stuff.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do say! And here she’s gone and decided to drag Mireille into court and poor Ed’s hardly cold. He’s only been dead for three days. The papers were delivered to her this morning.”
“That’s too bad,” said Lucy, well aware she could never use this material in a news story without inviting a libel uit, and she already knew that Eudora wasn’t averse to legal challenges. “What about the funeral? Do you know what’s being planned?”
“Haven’t got a clue. Poor Mireille, she got up her courage and called Eudora thinking it was only proper to include her in the planning. And you know, what? Eudora told her not to bother, that Ed’s lawyer was taking care of the details. Can you imagine? That’s what these folks are like. It’s all about the money. They don’t care if he gets a decent funeral or not.” Mimsy paused. “I guess you could give Munn a call. That’s Howard Munn. He’s Ed’s lawyer. He’s got an office in Boston.”
“Thanks,” said Lucy, wishing every interviewee was as forthcoming as Mimsy. “Please let Mireille know how sorry I am for her loss, and if there’s anything she wants to add, she can reach me here at the paper.”
“Will do. It’s been real nice talking to you, Lucy.”
Lucy shook her head after hanging up, thinking that things just kept getting stranger and stranger as suspects kept popping out of the woodwork. Matt Rodriguez was the prime suspect, of course, named by a witness. Then there was Ruth, a self-declared and extremely unlikely suspect, but there was the troubling matter of the Glock. Who knew what other weapons she might be hiding under all those hand-crocheted afghans? And now it turned out that Mireille had a very strong motive for killing her much older husband, since her baby would inherit his entire fortune. As the mother of this tiny billionaire, she would certainly have access to the estate and might actually control it. Come to think of it, thought Lucy, Mireille might also have figured out a way to kill Alison, clearing the way for her baby to inherit every last penny. And then there was Mimsy herself. It wouldn’t be the first time that a coldhearted killer used charm and an apparent willingness to help to distract investigators. It was certainly something to think about, Lucy decided as she googled Howard Munn.
CHAPTER 11
The lawyer’s number was easily obtained and Lucy got right on the phone to his Boston office where, much to her surprise, the man himself answered the phone. Caught off guard, she blurted out her thoughts.
“I didn’t actually expect to get through to you,” she confessed before identifying herself. “Sorry, I’m Lucy Stone from the Tinker’s Cove Pennysaver newspaper.”
Munn chuckled. “Well, I’ve got a small office, just me and a couple associates. We find that it’s best to keep things simple and direct, and our clients seem to appreciate our approach. I detest those recorded messages and why should I have a girl to answer the phone when I can do it myself?”
“Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more. Believe me, I spend a lot of time trying to negotiate phone systems that I suspect are designed to make callers give up in frustration. They say every call is important to them but they sure don’t act like it.”
Munn seemed to appreciate that and gave a little laugh.
“I won’t take up much time,” said Lucy, addressing the reason for her call. “I just need the details for Ed Franklin’s funeral for his obituary.”
“Of course. The service is at eleven o’clock Saturday at Trinity Church in Boston, followed by a reception at the Copley Plaza Hotel. Unfortunately for your readers, it’s by invitation only.”
“Of course. He was a very important person and I suppose a lot of other very important people will be attending.”
“Yes,” said Munn. “We know there’s a lot of interest, however, and I do have a limited number of press passes. Shall I reserve one for you?”
Lucy was floored. In her years as a part-time reporter for a small town weekly she knew only too well that she was at the bottom of the media food chain. “That would be great. Thank you.”
“No problem. I know how much Ed loved Tinker’s Cove and how active he was in local affairs. He’d want to include his neighbors, but given the situation it’s not practical to invite the whole town.”
Lucy found this reaction encouraging and decided to press for more information. “I’ve been told that Ed Franklin’s first wife is challenging his will. Is that true?”
There was a pause before Munn answered. “No comment, I’m afraid.”
Now it was Lucy’s turn to chuckle. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
“Not at all,” he said. “I respect people who work hard.”
“Is there anything you want to say about Ed Franklin for the story? I expect you’ve known him for a good number of years.”
“I have indeed,” he said in a thoughtful tone, “and I’m shocked and saddened by his death, especially so because it was clearly an assassination. I knew him well, personally and as a client, and I can think of no reason why anyone would want to kill him. This is a real tragedy. Ed’s death is a great loss to many, and most especially to his wife, Mireille, and his entire family.”
“Considering the fact that his daughter also died recently in rather suspicious circumstances, do you think there’s a vendetta against the Franklin family?”
“I fear poor Alison’s death was simply a tragic accident and unrelated to her father’s murder.” He paused. “I will overnight that press pass to you. You should have it in the morning.”
Lucy knew the call was over and there was no point trying to prolong it. “Thank you. I really appreciate this opportunity.”
Ted, however, wasn’t impressed when she told him she’d been invited to the funeral. “A funeral’s a funeral, even if it’s in Trinity Church,” he said, swinging around in his swivel chair and facing her. “There’ll be music and people will say a lot of nice things about Ed Franklin that may or may not be true and then they’ll party afterwards, glad it’s over.”
In her corner by the door, Phyllis gave an amused snort.
Lucy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “This is a big deal, Ted. There are going to be a lot of VIPs there, and maybe even his killer.”
“I’m sure the killer will wear a sign or something to identify him or herself. One of those smiley face stick-ons—Hello My Name Is Hit Man.”
Phyllis thought this was hysterical and she was struggling, shoulders shaking, to keep from laughing out loud.
Lucy, however, wasn’t amused. “The funeral’s by invitation only and I bet they haven’t invited any locals. I’d be representing the whole town.” She paused, dredging for something that would convince him. “We really owe it to his wife and the people Ed knew here, all the folks who worked with him on committees.”
“You mean all the folks he fought with,” said Phyllis.
“Well, yeah,” admitted Lucy. “He was involved with a lot of people. He affected a lot of lives here in town.” She could see Ted’s expression softening.
He was definitely considering letting her go.
“I’ll do it on my own time, Ted,” she offered, sweetening the deal. “I won’t even put in for gas.”
“Well, when you put it that way, I suppose we do owe it to our readers,” he said, turning back to his computer. Then, giving a little start, he slapped his hand against his head. “Did I hear you say something about his first wife challenging his will?”
“Yeah, that’s what Mireille’s mom told me.”
“I wonder, do you think she’s been blabbing to everyone who calls, or do you have a scoop? A scoop you’ve been sitting o
n since yesterday?”
“Well, if she told me, she’s probably told others,” said Lucy, defending herself. “She sounded like quite a character. Very chatty.”
“Yeah, but you know Samantha Eggers,” said Ted, naming the court clerk. “You wrote a flattering story about her, didn’t you, just a few months ago?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it flattering,” said Lucy, feeling the need to defend her journalistic integrity. “It was part of that series we did on the county court.”
“You did kind of suck up to her,” said Phyllis with a knowing nod.
“She was very helpful,” said Lucy, still defensive. “She’s nice. That’s not a crime, you know.”
“Well, get on over there and see if she’s got anything on this so-called lawsuit, okay?”
“Okay, boss,” said Lucy, only too eager to get out of the office . . . and out of town.
Ed Franklin was gone, but somehow the combative attitude he’d brought to Tinker’s Cove was lingering on. Paranoia and discord seemed to be spreading like some sort of infectious disease.
Heading back to Gilead for the second time in two days, Lucy stopped at the Quik-Stop for gas and picked up a hotdog for a quick lunch she could eat while she drove. It seemed to her that she was plying the same route to Gilead, the county seat, quite a lot. Fortunately, the trip was quite scenic, taking her past lovely old homes and giving her peeks at numerous coves and inlets dotted with pine-covered islands. As she drove and ate her hot dog, she thought about how Maine was changing.
When she’d first moved to Tinker’s Cove, lots of people sold homemade items like quilts and whirligigs, setting them out on their lawns for tourists to buy. Now, most of those displays were gone, replaced with neat signs advertising art galleries, acupuncture, and computer services. The region, indeed the whole country was experiencing a changing economy, and those who didn’t have college educations were joining Harry Crawford’s group of Left Behinds.
