by Leslie Meier
Interesting, thought Lucy, hurrying down the stairs in hopes of returning to the waiting room before Bill’s appointment was over. She was back in her seat, watching CNN announce that the president had officially pardoned a turkey, sparing it from certain death as the main course for someone’s Thanksgiving dinner, when Bill appeared.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
“I got a prescription for more painkillers and an appointment to come back in four weeks.”
“No surgery? Not even a cast?” she asked.
“Nope. They took X-rays and the break is too close to my shoulder for a cast. I’m supposed to stick with the sling and start physical therapy in a couple weeks.” He paused. “The good news is that my shoulder’s not dislocated.”
“What about all that bruising?” asked Lucy as they left the waiting room and walked outside and across the parking lot.
“Normal.”
“And how long before you can go back to work?” she asked.
“Six, maybe eight weeks.”
“That’s after Christmas.” Dismayed, she opened the car door for him. “How are we going to manage?”
“We’ll manage somehow,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat. “We always do. I can probably pick up some work at the hardware store. They’ll need extra help with Christmas coming and I don’t need two hands to help people find Christmas lights and coffeemakers.”
Lucy did some calculations involving the checking account, the savings account, and their usual monthly expenses while she walked around the car and got in the driver’s seat. It wasn’t an encouraging exercise, but they weren’t in any immediate danger of bankruptcy or foreclosure so she shoved her concerns to the back of her mind and started the car. “You’ll never believe who I saw while you were with the doctor.”
“Who? Santa Claus?”
“No. Eudora Clare, Ed Franklin’s ex-wife, along with her son and present husband. It looked to me like they were taking her to see a psychiatrist, but she balked at the door and wouldn’t go in.”
“She does seem to have a screw loose,” said Bill as they turned out of the parking area and onto the road.
“What’s really interesting is that it was Jon, the husband, who was pushing her to see the psychiatrist, but it seemed like Tag, the son, seemed to side with her against Jon,” said Lucy, thinking aloud as she drove. “A witness identified Hank as the arsonist, but when you think about it, Hank and Tag look a lot alike. It might have been Tag who blew up the pub. Maybe Ed planned the whole thing before he was killed and Tag followed through as a sort of final tribute to him. Or maybe he had some sort of cockeyed idea that Mireille was on the same page with Ed about Mexicans and blowing up the restaurant would please her and she’d share her child’s inheritance with him.”
They were passing a little inlet where a couple handsome old houses sat on the shoreline overlooking a million-dollar view of rocky seacoast when Bill challenged her.
“Where exactly did you see this little drama? The sports med is the only office on the first floor.”
Lucy knew she’d said too much. “Uh, well, I saw them come in and, um, followed them upstairs.”
“Are you crazy? You can’t follow people around. What if they saw you?”
“I was going to pretend I was looking for an office and was on the wrong floor.”
“And you think that would convince them? You suspect this guy is an arsonist, someone who’s willing to hurt and possibly kill other people, and you think it’s smart to follow him around?”
They’d passed the inlet and were passing stands of leafless trees and fields of drooping cornstalks.
“It wasn’t like I was creeping around in the dark or something. I was in a professional building in broad daylight, well, actually under bright fluorescent lights. There were no windows up there. It was a brightly lit hallway and I had every right to be there.”
“Yeah, well, I had every right to go about my business in the pub and look at what happened to me,” declared Bill.
“So you do think it might have been Tag?” asked Lucy, making the turn onto School Street.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Bill. “And I want you to promise to stop this crazy nonsense and mind your own business. You should hear yourself. You sound as crazy as this Eudora woman.”
“Well, this is my business,” argued Lucy, braking for the stop sign at the bottom of Red Top Road. “When you got blown up it became my business.”
“Stop. Stop the car,” ordered Bill.
“Why? Do you think you can drive one-armed?”
“I’m not driving, I’m getting out. I’ll walk from here.”
“That’s crazy,” said Lucy, beginning the climb up the hill.
“I mean it. Stop the car.”
“Okay, okay,” she grumbled, pulling off to the side of the road.
She turned, giving him a questioning look, but he didn’t notice.
He had already shoved the door open and was getting out. Then he shut the door hard without looking at her and marched off, striding up the hill without a backwards glance.
If only Real Simple had had an article advising how to have a productive argument with your husband, she thought, watching as he strode along, clearly driven by anger.
She made a three-point turn and headed for the office, aware that it wasn’t only his arm that was injured in the blast, but also his pride. She knew she’d handled things badly. He’d given her clear signals that he didn’t want to be mothered or babied, and that he would take responsibility for his injuries and for the family’s welfare, too. By the time she reached the office she’d resolved to be more tactful in the future . . . and to keep her investigative reporting activities to herself until it was time to break the story in the Pennysaver.
When she got to the office, Phyllis greeted her with a stack of press releases to be entered in the listings, and Ted informed her that he’d sent her story about the selectmen’s meeting back to her for a rewrite, so she knew she’d be working late. That was actually fine with her since she was in no hurry to go home and face Mister High and Mighty Grumpy Pants. If he was so darn independent, he could zap a frozen mini-pizza for himself. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t need two arms for that little chore.
When she sat down at her desk she found a press release from the DA announcing that the state crime lab had found no trace of any opiates in Alison Franklin’s body and therefore her death from drowning was considered accidental and the case was officially closed. There was also a voice mail from Mimsy, asking Lucy to give her a call as soon as possible, as it was a bit of an emergency. Lucy’s curiosity was piqued, wondering if the call was a reaction to the news about Alison, and she returned the call immediately. The phone rang numerous times before it was answered.
“Sorry, I was stuck in a closet,” said Mimsy, sounding rather breathless. “Mireille got a bee in her bonnet about getting the house ready for the Realtor and she’s had me clearing out all sorts of junk.”
“Maybe it’s that nesting thing,” said Lucy. “I bet she’ll go into labor any minute.”
“I can only hope,” said Mimsy with a sigh. “She’s working me ragged, and she’s got me worried, too. You know she fired the bodyguards and I’m terrified for her safety, especially since I found”—she paused and dropped her voice to a whisper—“I found committal papers that Jon sent to Ed. He wanted to have Eudora committed and wanted information from Ed about their marriage. He specifically wanted to know about any incidents of violent behavior.” Again she paused. “What if she goes after Mireille?”
“What do you mean? Do you really think Eudora is prone to violence?”
“It’s not what I think. It’s what her husband thinks. And Eudora’s made it very clear that she hates Mireille.”
Lucy thought about this and had to admit Mimsy had a point if Eudora truly was an unhinged psychopath. Lucy wasn’t convinced that was the case. True, she’d witnessed Eudora refusing to see a psychi
atrist, but that didn’t mean she was a danger to herself or others. As her friend Rachel often said, mental health was a continuum, and people moved through various periods of stability and instability throughout their lives, but that didn’t mean they were crazy. Eudora had clearly been through a lot, and she might very well be close to a breakdown, but her husband seemed to be dealing with the situation. He was clearly in contact with a psychiatrist and even if Eudora wasn’t ready to cooperate was probably getting sound professional advice.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” said Lucy, recalling her encounter with Eudora at the turkey farm. Then she’d seemed on the verge of hysteria, understandably shaken by the dual loss of her ex-husband and daughter. “Eudora is a small, slight middle-aged woman. If anything, she seems to be struggling with her emotions. Grief takes people differently. It’s terrible to lose loved ones, even if you’re estranged. Sometimes that makes it worse.”
“I don’t buy that,” said Mimsy. “Eudora might look fragile, but she’s been absolutely horrible to Mireille. She blames her for losing Ed. And remember, it doesn’t take a lot of muscle to pull a trigger.” Mimsy sighed. “I thought you’d be able to help me. That’s why I called. I don’t really know anybody but you in this stinky little town and I thought maybe you could talk some sense into Mireille.”
Lucy sensed Ted looming over her and when she looked up, he handed her a freshly issued brochure from the state outlining new hunting regulations. A yellow sticky note had been attached to the front cover, on which the words summarize this were written in his neat block print.
“I’ve really got to get back to work,” said Lucy, “and I don’t see how I can help you. Mireille’s all grown up. She seems quite capable of taking care of herself and her baby. If you’re really worried about Eudora, I think you should share this information with the police.”
“From what I’ve seen so far, they’re a pretty useless bunch,” said Mimsy.
Ted hadn’t budged. He was still standing behind her chair.
“Well, that’s all I can suggest,” said Lucy. “Thanks for calling. I’ll keep this information in mind.” She hung up and turned to face him. “So what do you want now?” she demanded.
“I just wanted to tell you that Rey Rodriguez dropped off some apple cider and donuts. The cider’s in the fridge and the donuts are by the coffee pot.”
“Oh,” said Lucy, somewhat deflated. “Thanks. I could use a donut.”
Her emotions were in turmoil as she ate three donuts in quick succession and gulped down at least a pint of apple cider. She didn’t really taste any of it as she tried to rationalize the way she brushed off poor Mimsy. She felt horribly guilty, but told herself that Mimsy and Mireille’s problems weren’t her problems. She had plenty of her own, the most pressing of which was the pile of work that was sitting on her desk. That wasn’t all, however. Bill was languishing at home, coping not only with considerable pain but also with depression about his inability to work. It didn’t help matters that they’d parted the way they did, with him stomping off in an angry huff.
It was bad enough that she was swamped at work, but knowing that Bill was mad at her made her feel completely overwhelmed. She didn’t have time for self-pity, she told herself. All she could spare was a nod and a prayer. The nod was an acknowledgment of the whole messy situation—the deaths, the grieving families, the accusations against Matt Rodriguez, the simmering intolerance that had suddenly flared up in the little town, and Bill’s injuries. The prayer was for help and guidance in seeing her own way through, for justice to be done, and for everyone involved to find peace and healing.
Even so, she couldn’t forget the terrible morning when she’d discovered Alison’s body and the whole mess began. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to erase the image of the lovely girl’s drowned body and the streaming hair that floated around her bluish face in the freezing water. That popped into her mind with disturbing frequency. If only she could remember some clue, some bit of information she missed, that would shed light on Alison’s death.
What could possibly have prompted Alison to venture out on thin ice? She wasn’t a child. She was an intelligent young adult familiar with seasonal changes and she certainly would have known the danger. There must have been some reason, some very strong reason that caused her to disregard her own safety and go out onto the thin ice.
She wondered if Alison might have spotted a dog that was in trouble, or even a wild animal like a deer. It was heartrending to witness an animal struggling for survival and Lucy knew from her own experience that it was almost impossible to resist the impulse to help, even when you knew it could be life threatening. She had once seen a mother doe and her fawn stranded on a chunk of floating ice in the pond and had felt terrible about leaving them to their fate, even though she knew there was nothing she could do that wouldn’t endanger her and possibly leave her own family motherless.
On impulse she hurried back to her desk and put in a call to her friend, Barney Culpepper, who had been one of the first police officers to respond to her call that awful morning.
“Barney, I was just wondering. Did you see anything the morning that Alison Franklin drowned that might explain why she went out on the ice? We just got a press release from the DA that says they didn’t find any trace of drugs.”
“Sorry, Lucy,” he replied in a mournful tone. “I keep worrying about that myself. I can’t seem to put that pretty young thing’s face out of my mind.”
“I think maybe she saw a dog or a deer that got in trouble.”
“Could be, Lucy. It seems something like that happens every year. Some do-gooder tries to help and falls through. And half the time, the animal manages to save itself and is just fine. The stupid dog gets itself back on shore, gives a good shake, and wants to go home for a good meal.”
“But did you see any sign of anything like that?”
“Nope. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen that way,” said Barney. “That’s most likely what happened. It’s the only thing that makes any sense to me.”
“Me, too,” said Lucy, reaching for the booklet of revised hunting regulations. Flipping it open to the first page, she saw a bold red headline advising hunters to hunt safely. First on the list of dangers to watch for was thin ice.
CHAPTER 20
Thanksgiving Day dawned bright and clear, but with a cool breeze that made it perfect weather for running. Bill’s temper had eventually cooled, helped by a Skype session with his grandson, Patrick, in Alaska and his favorite supper of meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
Both he and Lucy were in high spirits as they parked the car alongside the town common and joined the crowd of people gathered around the registration table for the 5K race. Everyone was talking about the cornucopia on the bandstand, which was already full to overflowing with donated food for the Food Pantry. Bill had volunteered to help collect the canned goods that were the entry fee for the race, along with a nominal $10 fee, but since he had to work with only one hand he was assigned instead to distributing the highly coveted Turkey Trot T-shirts. Many of the competitors were wearing shirts from previous years. Each featured the cartoon running turkey and the year in big, bold numbers. The older the shirt, the greater the prestige.
After signing in and receiving her T-shirt, Lucy pulled it on over her running togs and got busy stretching out her muscles. She didn’t have any real hope of winning the race, especially since her training had been so spotty, but as she checked out the other runners who were also busy warming up, she realized that there were very few in her age category. Most women her age, she figured, were much too busy this morning getting their turkeys stuffed and in the oven to even think of running in the race. Maybe, she thought as her competitive spirit rose, she might actually have a chance of placing and getting a medal. It was certainly worth a try. Vowing to give the race every bit of energy she could, she joined the other runners assembling behind the starting line. She noticed lots of familiar
faces, including Phyllis’s husband Wilf, several of Dot Kirwan’s kids, and even Roger Wilcox, chairman of the board of selectmen.
Rev. Marge offered a short prayer and announced that this year’s donations for the Food Pantry had topped all previous records. Then she raised the starting gun, said the traditional “Ready, Set,” and pulled the trigger.
They were off. Runners who had placed in previous years’ races got the best positions just behind the starting line, and they led the pack. Others, like Lucy, had to wait a bit before they even reached the starting line. As she shuffled along, Lucy pictured the route in her mind, picturing the race course. The route was clearly signed and led from the town common along Parallel Street with its antique sea captain’s homes, then gradually climbed up to Shore Road. There the route passed roomy shingle-style summer cottages and newer McMansions and offered beautiful views of the bay dotted with rocky, pine-covered islands and bound by Quissett Point in the distance. The course then turned at the gate to Pine Point, the Van Vorst estate, and continued along a pine needle strewn path through the woodsy Audubon sanctuary, emerging onto Church Street by the old cemetery and continuing down Main Street to Sea Street, where the runners descended to reach the finish line in the harbor.
Lucy was trapped in a crowd of runners when she reached the starting line where she gave a wave to the cheering crowd of onlookers and jogged along with the group. The pack of runners began to thin out as they proceeded alongside the town common and Lucy could finally begin running. The race attracted runners and walkers of various levels of fitness. Some were keen competitors who raced regularly, while others were simply out for a pleasant bit of exercise that also happened to benefit a good cause. That meant that the pack stretched out for some distance along the course, with the dedicated competitors far out in front of the rest, followed by slower runners and finally, the walkers bringing up the rear.
