Gobble, Gobble Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “I know the one. I sold that,” said the rep. “We’re not responsible for the message, you know. We just provide the space. We’ve had people propose marriage on our billboards. One guy rented one to announce the birth of his grandson. We do have limits. No profanity, no libel or slander, that sort of thing. If you want to call your neighbor a thief or a liar, you have to paint that on a piece of plywood yourself and nail it up on a tree on your own property.”

  “Good to know,” said Lucy. “Can you tell me who put up the America for Americans sign?”

  “Sure. I’m just checking my files . . . Ah, here it is. It’s actually a group called America for Americans, and the contact person is Zeke Bumpus.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy, abruptly ending the call. She didn’t need any further information. She knew exactly who Zeke Bumpus was and where to reach him.

  He lived on Bumpus Road where his family had lived for hundreds of years without doing much to improve the place. The family home was a compound of ramshackle buildings surrounded by an assortment of things that might come in handy someday— things like busted washing machines, old cars propped on cinder blocks, and various pieces of rusting machinery. Family members supported themselves by occasionally working on lobster boats or helping local building contractors, but generally avoided full-time jobs.

  Zeke operated a firewood business, and Lucy found him in a patch of woods next to the family compound, running logs through a splitting machine. The machine was noisy and she caught his attention by waving her arms.

  He reluctantly silenced the machine. “Whaddya want?” he asked, scowling. Zeke was only in his mid-twenties, but looked older due to his thinning hair and growing waistline. He was dressed for work in a faded plaid flannel shirt, filthy jeans, and a pair of unlaced work boots.

  “Hi, Zeke. It’s a nice day for outdoor work, right?”

  He scowled at her. “I’d rather be hunting, but I gotta do this. We got a big order from the Queen Vic.”

  “Yeah, they advertise fireplaces in every room.” Lucy was familiar with the town’s upscale B&B.

  Zeke cocked his head and looked at her with a puzzled expression. “Are you here for wood? I can give you a half-cord.”

  “No, I’m all set with firewood,” she replied. “I’m actually here to ask about that billboard, the one that says America for Americans. How’d that come about?”

  “Is this for the newspaper?” he asked, narrowing his pale blue eyes suspiciously.

  “Of course. People are wondering who’s behind the sign. It’s causing quite a stir.”

  “Great. That’s what we want. We want folks to realize that these immigrants, these Muslims and Mexicans and Somalis, are taking our country away from us. It’s white people like you and me that built this country and now folks like us can’t get jobs. All the jobs have gone overseas to places like Bangladesh and China. Do you know our country owes millions and billions of dollars to the Chinese? What’s gonna happen if they decide it’s time to pay up, huh? It’s crazy the way we’re letting these Mexicans flood the country with drugs, and they’re sending us their criminals, too. Rapists and murderers, attacking white women and leaving them with little brown anchor babies.”

  “I’m sure a lot of folks agree with you,” said Lucy when Zeke had run out of steam. She didn’t want to risk angering him further, so she ventured cautiously into the territory she wanted to explore. “Do you have some sort of organization people can join?”

  “Sure, America for Americans. We’ve got a website and everything.”

  “Those are expensive, aren’t they? And that billboard must have cost a pretty penny, right?”

  “Money’s no problem. That’s for sure.”

  “Really? How come?” Lucy seriously doubted Zeke’s little firewood business earned the kind of money needed to rent a billboard.

  “ ’Cause a rich donor gave us a big, fat check.”

  “Who was this donor?” asked Lucy, who had a good idea.

  “Ed Franklin himself, before he died. I’m president, you see, but the sign was his idea. He worked out the design and the details. It came out real good.”

  “His death must be a huge loss to the organization,” said Lucy.

  “Yeah,” agreed Zeke, nodding. “But we’re going to have a big rally in his memory . . . on Thanksgiving Day, our national holiday.”

  Lucy couldn’t resist. She had to say it. “But you know, Thanksgiving was started by the Pilgrims, who were actually immigrants.”

  “They were American immigrants,” said Zeke, pointing a finger at her. “Remember that. American immigrants. America for Americans.”

  “It’s been great talking to you, Zeke,” she said, managing a halfhearted smile. It really wasn’t worth pointing out that the Pilgrims arrived in 1620, a hundred and fifty-six years before the colonists rebelled against English rule. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime, Lucy,” he said, picking up a log and starting up the log splitter. It roared into life and even though his lips were moving she couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  She gave him a wave and headed for her car, feeling somehow soiled by his hateful, ignorant words. If only you could wash off intolerance and prejudice like you rinse off salt after a swim in the sea. But all too often, it seemed, these ideas stuck and wormed their way into people’s minds, where they grew like cancer.

  Ed Franklin was dead, she thought, but he had left behind a hateful legacy that would live on, poisoning minds and quite possibly ripping the Tinker’s Cove community apart.

  CHAPTER 18

  Lucy glanced at the dashboard clock when she started the car and was startled to realize it was almost noon. She wasn’t far from home, so she decided to stop by to see how Bill was doing and have lunch with him before heading back to the office.

  Reaching Red Top Road, which was usually deserted this time of day, she was surprised to see a number of cars coming the opposite way. The drivers usually stuck an arm out the window and gave her a wave or a friendly toot on the horn. When she got to the house perched on the top of hill, she saw an extra car in the driveway. Franny Small was bent over taking something out of her little Chevy, and when she stood up, Lucy saw she was holding a foil-covered dish.

  “Hi, Lucy,” she said, waiting while Lucy got of her SUV. “I hope Bill likes American chop suey. I made some for him. I thought he might like a hot lunch.”

  “Thanks, Franny. It’s one of his favorite meals.” Lucy neglected to mention that she hadn’t made it for him in years, considering all that macaroni and ground beef much too fattening. “Why don’t you come in and have lunch with us.”

  “Okay,” said Franny, who was a single lady, now retired from a successful business career. “That would be nice. I do get a little tired of eating alone.”

  Once inside the kitchen, Lucy saw the golden oak table was full with a number of covered dishes. “What’s all this?” she asked when Bill popped out of the family room.

  “People have been stopping all morning, bringing food,” he said. “There’s cookies and banana bread and mac and cheese and I don’t know what all.”

  “I guess I’ve brought coals to Newcastle,” said Franny.

  “Never you mind. I’m going to clear this away and we’ll have your American chop suey,” began Lucy, transferring a couple pies to the counter.

  “American chop suey!” exclaimed Bill. “That’s my favorite, and Lucy never makes it anymore.”

  Franny blushed, setting the foil-covered dish on the table. “I know it’s the sort of hearty dish most men enjoy eating.”

  Lucy took Franny’s coat and hung it up with her own, then quickly set the table with placemats, dishes, and silverware. She put the kettle on for tea and they all sat down to eat. Bill’s broken arm hadn’t spoiled his appetite, and he pleased Franny no end by eating seconds and thirds. When the kettle whistle sounded, Lucy made a pot of tea that they had along with Lydia Volpe’s pizzelle cookies for dessert.

  When they were fin
ished eating, Franny insisted on helping Lucy with the dishes. Bill went off to the family room, rubbing his tummy and yawning as he went. The phone rang a couple times, but each time, he picked up the extension in the family room before Lucy could dry her hands to answer. When the dishes were done, Franny and Lucy exchanged thanks and good-byes—Franny thanked Lucy for inviting her to lunch and Lucy thanked Franny for bringing lunch and they both did this several times before Franny finally left. Lucy went into the family room expecting to find Bill sound asleep, but he was still talking on the phone.

  “Waller’s Garage has offered to cover the deductible when they fix the truck,” he said when the call ended. “No charge.”

  “That’s great,” said Lucy, who had been fretting about that hefty deductible ever since her conversation with their insurance agent. She’d made the decision to raise the deductible some years ago in an effort to reduce the cost of their car insurance, which had increased sharply when the kids began driving.

  “And the kids in the church youth group want to come and rake leaves for us.”

  “My goodness,” said Lucy, feeling rather overwhelmed.

  “Miss Tilley is going to bring me some books,” he said, “and Hattie Gordon from the garden club is bringing a harvest-themed wreath, whatever that is.”

  Lucy was going to tell him, but the phone was already ringing again. She left him to answer it and headed back to work, taking along one of the four loaves of cranberry bread they had received. It would be good for an afternoon coffee break.

  As she drove, she thought about all the good and kind people in Tinker’s Cove who were always quick to reach out and help their neighbors in times of trouble, and she thought of Zeke Bumpus and the America for Americans faction. She wondered if the groups overlapped, like the circles in Luisa Rodriguez’s Venn diagrams, or if they were clearly distinct circles. Reaching town and making the familiar turn onto Main Street, she concluded that they probably did. People weren’t necessarily consistent and the woman who baked cranberry bread for her ailing neighbor might also fear that an influx of immigrants would change the character of her town.

  Lucy was passing the town common when she noticed that the chamber of commerce’s huge cornucopia had been erected in the bandstand and decided to snap a photo for the Pennysaver. Volunteers had built the horn of plenty, which was constructed of painted canvas stretched over a wood frame, and the chamber set it up every year to collect the canned foods that were the entry fee for the Turkey Trot race. A photo of the empty cornucopia would remind everyone to bring donations, whether or not they were competing in the 5K.

  She parked alongside the green where the grass was now brown and grabbed her camera, noticing that the cornucopia had already drawn a couple passersby. Drawing closer, she recognized the two women who were studying the display as Mireille Franklin and her mother, Mimsy.

  “Do you mind if I take a photo of you two admiring the cornucopia?” Lucy asked, raising her camera.

  “Maybe not,” said Mimsy, grabbing her daughter’s hand in a protective gesture. “Mireille needs to keep a low profile.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mom,” said Mireille. “A couple figures will make the photo more interesting.”

  “I can take you from behind and I wouldn’t have to identify you,” offered Lucy.

  “Okay,” agreed Mimsy somewhat reluctantly.

  “I was going to suggest that, in any case,” said Mireille. “I’d rather not be photographed with this huge belly.”

  “I thought you’d be a mom by now,” said Lucy, smiling.

  “Me, too,” said Mireille, stroking her baby bump. “This little one is in no hurry to come into the world, and I can’t say I blame him.”

  “Or her,” added Mimsy, holding up her hand with two fingers crossed.

  “Are you still planning to leave Tinker’s Cove after the baby’s born?” asked Lucy.

  Mimsy answered, her assertive tone leaving no doubt about the matter. “Absolutely. Mireille needs to get away. The sooner she gets that house on the market, the better.”

  “You haven’t done that yet?” asked Lucy.

  “I know I should,” said Mireille with a sigh, “but I’m not ready to leave Ed and Alison. I know it’s weird, but I like visiting their graves . . .”

  “It’s morbid. That’s what it is,” snapped Mimsy. “And you shouldn’t go alone to that cemetery.”

  “No, it’s not morbid. I like being with them, just me and them, remembering them as they were when they were alive.” Mireille paused, smiling. “Sometimes when I go there I think I hear them talking to me. They don’t seem sad. Ed’s mad that he isn’t around to manage everything. He’s not convinced that I can get along without him. Alison is more at peace. She says she’s watching over me and the baby.”

  Mimsy didn’t like hearing this one bit. “Come on, Mireille. You must be tired. You need to go home and get some rest.”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” said Mireille, protesting.

  “That’s what you think, but it’s not true,” countered Mimsy. “You’re not yourself and you’re not behaving sensibly.” She took her daughter by the arm, then turned to face Lucy. “Do you know what she did? She fired the bodyguards. All of them. Says she doesn’t need them. Now does that sound like a sensible thing to do?”

  Put on the spot, Lucy didn’t know how to respond. “I really don’t know.”

  “I didn’t like having strangers in the house,” said Mireille with a wan smile.

  “Well, they were there to protect you and your baby,” said Mimsy. “And if you end up dead like Ed and Alison, I’m not going to be visiting your grave so you can just hold your peace. Don’t try talking to me, because I won’t be there to listen!”

  “Point taken, Mom,” replied Mireille, allowing Mimsy to lead her away across the dead brown lawn to their car.

  Lucy decided to jog the short distance to the Pennysaver office, chiding herself for not taking her Turkey Trot training regimen more seriously. She had lots of excuses, she told herself, but she definitely needed to make her morning runs a priority. Time was running out with only a few days until the race.

  When she got to the office, Phyllis was bursting with news. “Lucy!” she exclaimed, “You’ll never guess what’s happened.”

  “Martians landed?”

  “No! Jason Sprinkle and Link Peterson have been arrested for torching the pub.”

  “That was quick,” Lucy said, glancing at Ted.

  “Those two are not the brightest bulbs in the pack,” he said. “At first they claimed they were out of town, but the cops have witnesses who saw them at the harbor just before the explosion. There’s even video from the harbormaster’s shed of them leaving the parking lot moments before the explosion. The chief told me they’re saying they didn’t notice the blaze, and that’s why they didn’t call for help. Little bastards insist it was Hank DeVries who did it.”

  “There’s no way he could’ve done it. I took him to rehab in New Hampshire on Saturday,” said Lucy.

  “Next thing they’ll be saying Santa Claus did it,” said Phyllis.

  When Lucy called Bill to give him the news, he wasn’t convinced that Link and Jason were the arsonists. “They’re not bad kids. I can’t believe they did it. They knew I was in the building. I spoke to them in the parking lot. They asked me what I was doing working for those Mexicans and I told them I’d probably be needing help and asked if they’d be interested in some work. I figured even they could do demo.”

  “Looks like they did it for free,” said Lucy.

  Bill chuckled. “I don’t think so. They seemed pretty interested in the fifteen dollars an hour I offered to pay them.”

  “Who else was down there?” asked Lucy. “Did you see anyone?”

  “Yeah. Lots of people. It was Saturday afternoon and there was lots of activity. Even some tourists.”

  She heard the doorbell ring and Bill ended the call, saying someone was at the door and so far they had received six loa
ves of banana bread, but only one with chocolate chips, which he was eating.

  “I should take out an ad,” she told Ted and Phyllis. “No more banana bread, please!”

  When she fired up her computer, she wondered if Link and Jason had actually seen the arsonist, but mistook him for someone else. When you thought about it, you realized there were a number of fair, tall young men in town.

  That impression was confirmed that evening when she was driving home from work. Lucy was approaching the stop sign at the intersection of Main and Summer streets when a speeding car shot right through, causing her to brake abruptly. She was thinking it was a good thing she hadn’t been going too fast, and strained to see who was the reckless driver. At first she thought it was Hank, then remembered he was supposed to be in rehab in New Hampshire and also that he certainly wouldn’t be driving a shiny new Audi. It was probably Tag Franklin, she decided, wondering if he could possibly be the arsonist who firebombed the pub. He seemed a more likely suspect than Link and Jason, if he subscribed to his adoptive father’s anti-immigrant views. But it was also a terribly dangerous thing to do, and why would he risk blowing himself up, or getting caught and going to jail? All indications were that he had a cushy lifestyle as the pampered offspring of wealthy parents.

  When she reached home she saw a MINI Cooper parked in the driveway and figured that Bill had yet another visitor. Poor guy, he certainly wasn’t getting much rest, she thought, opening the back door and finding Rev. Marge standing in the kitchen.

  “I was just leaving,” she told Lucy. “But Bill and I worked it out that the youth group will come on Friday afternoon to clean up your yard.”

  “Great,” said Lucy. “We really appreciate the help.” Her eyes were traveling over the kitchen table and counters, which were loaded with every imaginable form of baked good.

  As Bill had told her, there were indeed six loaves of banana bread, as well as three loaves of cranberry bread, numerous Bundt cakes, plastic containers of cookies, even a few pies. The freezer, too, was loaded to bursting with homemade soups and casseroles.