Turkey Trot Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “And I’ve covered lots of projects for the Pennysaver, lots of board meetings, and I’ve never seen such a prejudicial attitude,” said Lucy.

  Just then the door flew open and a young man entered, greeting everyone with a cheery wave. “Hi, Pop. I’m here to take a look at the new place.”

  “This is my son Matt,” said Rey, introducing the newcomer. “He’ll be managing the restaurant.”

  Matt was tall and good-looking, with longish black hair and very white teeth, and was swinging a pair of Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses in one hand. He was dressed in a leather jacket, designer jeans, and fancy driving shoes.

  “What a great location, right?” said Matt, nodding his approval. “It’s going to be fabulous.”

  “Well, we’re running into some problems,” said Rey. “This is Bill Stone. He came to discuss possible renovations. And this is wife, Lucy. Ed Franklin and Jennifer Santos are from the town board of health, and they say we’ve got some environmental issues.”

  “Really?” inquired Matt, raising a dark slash of eyebrow. “I went over all the specs with an environmental engineer. He even did an inspection before we made an offer. He said everything was correct.”

  “Well, I’m the chairman of the board of health and I’d like to take a look at that so-called review,” said Ed Franklin. “You can’t just come into this town and start polluting the water with your greasy Mexican gunk. I know the sort of stuff you people eat—loads of lard and oil—”

  “He says we will have to use paper plates like a fast-food place,” said Rey.

  “That has not been decided,” cautioned Jennifer.

  “What exactly is the process?” asked Matt, directing his question to Jennifer. “Do we have to get approval from him? Who is this guy? The king of sanitation?”

  “Like I said, I’m the chairman of the board and they’ll darn well do what I tell them to do,” declared Ed. “And I can tell you that we don’t want people like you—”

  “Now I understand,” said Matt. “It’s because we’re Latino, right?”

  “Not now,” cautioned Rey, placing his hand on his son’s arm.

  “Yeah, and three of your compadres were in the district court this morning. Drug pushers with guns. Not the sort of folks we want in Tinker’s Cove.”

  “Not my compadres,” said Matt. “Do you know our family came here from Spain in the fifteen hundreds? We were here long before the United States was created.”

  “Well bully for you,” said Ed, turning to Jennifer. “I think we’re done here.”

  “Here’s my card.” She handed one to Rey. “You can contact me anytime with questions.” She seemed ready to add something, then glanced over her shoulder at Ed who was clearly impatient for her to leave, and decided against it. “It’s been nice meeting you,” she said, scurrying out after him.

  “What do you think?” asked Rey, turning to Bill.

  “Like I said, we take out these fake cottage windows and put in plate glass. Open up the kitchen, put in some new light fixtures, banquette seating. It’s going to be beautiful.”

  “How long will it take?” asked Rey.

  “Not long,” said Bill. “A couple weeks if you go with stock items, which I recommend. Custom could take forever.”

  Rey was smiling and nodding along, sharing Bill’s vision.

  But Matt wasn’t buying it. “And what about Ed Franklin?”

  “In the end, the board has to follow the law, and the law’s on your side,” said Bill.

  “Ed Franklin just lost his daughter. He’s grieving.” Lucy gave an apologetic smile. “People here aren’t like him,” she said, by way of farewell.

  As she made her way to the Pennysaver office, she thought of the demonstration outside the courthouse and wondered if Ed Franklin was saying things out loud that many people had been thinking to themselves for some time. Maybe his hate speech would open the flood gates, unleashing a torrent of pent-up prejudice.

  “What took so long?” Ted asked when Lucy arrived at the office carrying a bag from the Quik-Stop containing a pot of yogurt and a banana.

  “Court took forever, then I had to grab something for lunch . . .” she said, noticing that Phyllis was holding up her hands in a cautionary sign, casting warning eyes in Ted’s direction. Taking the hint Lucy decided not to mention her stop at the Olde Irish Pub, which was a personal errand, even though it meant not reporting the encounter between Ed Franklin and the Rodriguezes.

  “I heard there was quite a demonstration at the courthouse. Did you get photos?” demanded Ted.

  “Photos and quotes,” said Lucy.

  “Okay, write it up. And before you leave, I want to go over the week’s news budget.”

  “Right, Chief,” said Lucy, giving a little salute before hanging up her coat.

  “No need for sarcasm,” snapped Ted, who was hunched over his computer.

  Lucy settled herself at her desk, eating her yogurt while she booted up her computer and scrolled through her e-mails. She was licking the last off her spoon when the phone rang and she answered it.

  “Hi, Lucy,” said Pam. “Something’s come up and I need help.”

  Interesting, thought Lucy. Maybe this was the reason for Ted’s bad mood. “What’s the trouble?”

  “Debi Long has pneumonia. She’s in the hospital.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Bad? It’s worse than bad. It’s a disaster.”

  “Pneumonia? They give you antibiotics, then you get better . . .”

  “It’s the Harvest Festival at the church! Debi always makes dozens of apple cider donuts and people snap them up. Some people come just for the donuts.”

  Lucy knew the Harvest Festival was a big fundraiser for the church, which in turn donated to numerous local causes, including the Hat and Mitten Fund that she and her friends had started to provide warm clothes and school supplies for the town’s less fortunate children. She also had an uneasy feeling where this was heading.

  “I wish I could help.”

  “Well, you can. You can make donuts, can’t you? All you need is a deep fryer. If you don’t have one I bet you can borrow Debi’s.”

  “I have done it. I can do it, but that doesn’t mean I want to do it,” said Lucy, who used to turn out a steady stream of baked goods when the kids were little. Back then, she was always mixing up nutritious lunchbox treats like oatmeal cookies with raisins, peanut butter bars, and molasses hermits. To be honest though, she rarely bothered with donuts, considering them too much trouble, and unhealthy to boot. “I’ve always been more of a customer at the Harvest Festival.”

  “Well, I bet you’d like making donuts if you tried. It would come back to you . . . like riding a bike.”

  “It’s the question of time,” said Lucy, glancing at the rolltop desk where Ted was buried in a pile of papers. “Your husband here keeps me pretty busy.”

  “Never mind him. I’ll take care of Ted. You take whatever time you need to make donuts. It doesn’t have to be twelve dozen. Six would be good. Angie Booth said she can make six, too.”

  “What about Sue? Can’t she do it?” asked Lucy in a last ditch effort.

  “Sue is making peanut brittle, which she tells me is absolutely wonderful, though I don’t know how she knows since I doubt she’s ever actually eaten any.” Pam paused. “Donuts aren’t very hard, you know, if you use an electric fryer. You just pop them in and wait for them to float to the top, then flip ’em over.” She paused. “Just be sure to let them drain well. They’re icky if they’re too oily.”

  Lucy knew from the tone of her voice that Pam was truly desperate. “Okay,” she agreed reluctantly. “I’ll dig out the fryer. Six dozen apple cider donuts.”

  “Thanks, Lucy. I knew I could count on you. You’re absolutely super.”

  * * *

  It was after four when Lucy finished writing her story about the arraignment and the related demonstration, and uploaded her photos. She jotted down some ideas for the news budg
et and checked her e-mails for last-minute announcements and changes to the official town calendar. Noticing something from the board of selectmen she saw a new item was added to the agenda for the upcoming meeting—a citizen’s complaint about racial bias by a member of the board of health.

  “This is going to be interesting,” she told Ted, finally deciding to tell him about the discussion she’d heard at the Olde Irish Pub. “Ed Franklin was using derogatory words like amigo and no way José to Rey Rodriguez. And he was making up stuff about the septic system not being up to code, saying they might not be able to run a dishwasher.”

  “I’m not surprised that Rey is filing a complaint,” said Phyllis.

  “I’m not sure it’s Rey,” said Lucy, thinking that Matt had seemed awfully self-assured. “It might be his son, Matt.”

  “The hunk I saw filling up his ’Vette at the Quik-Stop?” asked Phyllis with a mischievous smile.

  “Could be,” said Lucy, laughing.

  Chapter Five

  When she got home that evening, Lucy was surprised to see Zoe using the old electric fryer to cook up a batch of Southern Fried Chicken. Each piece had a lovely brown crust and as they sat on a wire rack, they filled the air with a delicious chickeny aroma.

  That aroma was clearly getting to Libby. Mouth watering, she was sitting expectantly at Zoe’s feet.

  “Is that for supper?” asked Lucy as she dropped her bag on the bench and began unbuttoning her jacket.

  “Yup. I just got a yen for fried chicken,” declared Zoe, carefully adding the last few pieces of crusty chicken to the wire rack to cool and switching off the fryer.

  “Very impressive. I’m sure it’s going to taste every bit as good as it looks. But I’ve got to ask, whatever possessed you?” Lucy knew her youngest daughter’s forays into the kitchen rarely went beyond tossing a pack of popcorn into the microwave.

  “I have a big American Lit midterm exam next week,” admitted Zoe. “I’m avoiding studying because every time I open my notebook I think of Alison. According to my psych book it’s called displacement activity.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Lucy, concerned. “Maybe you should check those psych books for a more positive approach—one that would get you back on track with your studying.”

  “I should,” said Zoe with a sigh. “And I will. But every time I open my notebooks I think of Alison.”

  “It’s tough, I know,” said Lucy, giving Zoe a hug. “I think you just have to make yourself get started. Once you do, I think it will get easier.”

  “I hope so,” said Zoe, plopping into one of the chairs at the round, golden oak kitchen table. “I’m thinking of taking next semester off. This new restaurant Dad’s working at, Cali Kitchen, has got lots of help wanted signs up at the college. I’m sure I could get a job there.”

  Lucy had a horrible sinking feeling. She’d seen how this worked. First the kids dropped out of school, then with too much free time on their hands they began hanging around with other dropouts, and before you knew it, they started experimenting with drugs. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, washing her hands in the kitchen sink.

  “Don’t panic, Mom,” said Zoe in an amused tone, watching her mother pull some salad fixings out of the fridge. “It’s just an idea.”

  “Maybe you could drop a course or two, and work part-time,” said Lucy, ripping open a bag of lettuce and dropping it into a bowl.

  “Yeah, maybe,” said Zoe with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

  “In the meantime,” began Lucy as she chopped a cucumber, “since you can’t concentrate on American Literature, how about making apple cider donuts for me? I said I’d make six dozen for the Harvest Festival at the church.”

  “I could do that,” said Zoe in a thoughtful tone. “I saw Martha Stewart make donuts on TV this morning and it didn’t look hard.”

  Lucy wondered exactly how much time Zoe was wasting in this displacement activity as she watched her pick up the neglected notebook lying on the table and flipped through a few pages.

  “Of course,” said Zoe, “Moby Dick is a really complex book and I’m way behind. I already told Mrs. Hollis that I’m not going to be able to babysit for her this weekend and I’ll need some gas money . . .”

  Lucy had an idea where this was heading. “I’ll pay you,” she said in a small voice as she began coring a tomato.

  “I’m pretty sure we can work something out,” said Zoe with a satisfied smile. “When do you need the donuts?”

  * * *

  These days it seemed to Lucy that time was accelerating and the days flew by much too quickly before she could accomplish half the things she meant to do. The town calendar followed its usual pattern of regularly scheduled meetings and she found she had a permanent case of déjà vu, finding herself once again in the basement meeting room at the town hall covering the planning board or the finance committee, and most frequently, the board of selectmen.

  At least today’s meeting promised to be a little bit different, as the Rodriguezes complaint against Ed Franklin was on the agenda. When she arrived, Rey and Matt were already in attendance sitting side by side in a middle row, quietly conversing. They were dressed more formally in ties and business suits rather than the customary jeans and sweaters that was usual in Tinker’s Cove.

  She settled herself in her usual seat, then abruptly decided to shake things up a bit and moved to the opposite side of the room and sat beside Verity Hawthorne.

  “Going rogue?” she asked, looking up from her knitting and giving Lucy a smile.

  “Just thought I’d see if things look different from this side of the room.”

  “I think we’re in for a bit of drama tonight,” said Verity as Ed Franklin strode down the center aisle, planting his feet heavily with each step.

  Reaching the row where Rey and Matt were sitting, he paused and glared at them, then continued on his way, taking a seat in the front row where he spread his legs wide apart and stretched his arms across the backs of the chairs on either side of him. The body language spoke loud and clear—Ed Franklin was a big, important man, much too big for one little chair.

  The big hand on the clock behind the selectmen’s dais clicked into place on the twelve and the board members immediately filed in. Following their usual order, they sat down at the long table, each behind his or her nameplate. Roger Wilcox called the meeting to order, they promptly dispatched the usual business, then moved on to the matter of the citizen’s complaint.

  Rey rose and politely addressed the board members, speaking in a somewhat regretful tone as he claimed that Ed Franklin overstepped his role as a board member when he inserted himself in the meeting with health inspector Jennifer Santos. “He had no place at that meeting, the purpose of which was simply to provide an overview of the project and discuss the relevant regulations. Mr. Franklin displayed a hostile attitude. He threatened enforcement of nonexistent regulations and interfered with Ms. Santos’ professional responsibilities.

  “I know a bit about the restaurant business,” Rey continued in a deliberate understatement. “I have been in the business for nearly forty years. I have worked hard to earn an enviable reputation as a respected restaurateur and chef, so I can only conclude that Mr. Franklin objects to me personally because I am of Latino heritage. This, as you know, is a clear violation of national, state, and local equal rights legislation.

  “I also want to add that I have come to believe that Mr. Franklin has been pressuring local suppliers and garbage haulers to refuse to do business with me. As my credit rating is excellent, that is the only possible explanation for the resistance I have encountered as I have tried to contract with local suppliers for necessary products and services. I might add that in all my years as a businessman I have never before encountered a situation like this.”

  Matt remained quiet in his seat while his father spoke but kept his eyes fixed on the back of Ed Franklin’s head. That head remained immobile. Ed Franklin did not react in any way to Rey’
s accusations.

  When Rey finished speaking, Roger thanked him for expressing himself so clearly and bringing the matter to the attention of the board. Then he asked Ed Franklin if he wished to respond.

  “You bet I do,” said Ed, remaining sprawled in his seat. His tone was conversational, as if he was merely repeating widely accepted truths. “Everybody knows Mexico has only two exports—illegal drugs and people—and both are trouble. We’ve all read in the newspapers about the gang wars on the border and the terrible killings. These folks have no respect for life. They kill anybody who gets in their way, including police officers. I have friends in Arizona, people who’ve been successful in business and were looking to enjoy a peaceful retirement, and they say they have to have dogs and fences and guns to feel safe from the illegals.

  “Now maybe Mr. Rodriguez here is a law-abiding fellow. I’ve got nothing against him personally, and my wife says his cookbooks are great, fabulous, but when one Mexican moves in you get a lot more. They’re like mice. You catch one mouse and think you’ve solved the problem, but believe me, it’s just the tip of the iceberg. I think we’ve got a responsibility to keep Tinker’s Cove a safe, pleasant place to live and that means keeping out undesirable elements. Mexicans should stay in Mexico. America is for Americans.”

  While Ed was speaking Lucy watched the expressions on the board members faces, trying to discern their reactions. At first, they seemed eager to display openness and a fair-minded willingness to hear his response to Rey’s allegations, but as Ed continued, their expressions hardened and they began to fidget in their seats, growing more and more uncomfortable. By the time he finished speaking, Franny Small was biting her lip, Sam Bellamy’s face was red and he seemed about to explode. Joe Marzetti was clenching his teeth and Winchester College professor Fred Rumford was shaking his head in dismay. Roger Wilcox was momentarily speechless, his head lowered as he stared at the papers on the table before him.

  “Mr. Franklin,” he finally said, “you have not answered Mr. Rodriguez’s complaint that you personally interfered in a meeting with the health agent, overstepping your position as chairman of the board of health. What do you have to say?”