Turkey Trot Murder

by Leslie Meier

  * * *

  Back at the house, Lucy couldn’t stop thinking about the drug deals she’d witnessed. It was shocking to her that this was happening so close to home. Blueberry Pond wasn’t that far from their house, and the logging road was passable by car. Were they in danger from these criminals? Would they have to start locking the doors to the house, something they’d never done in all the years they’d lived on Red Top Road? And what about the stuff in their shed? It was chock full of Bill’s expensive power tools, which a desperate user could steal and sell, probably for pennies on the dollar, but enough to buy some cheap heroin. Maybe more. She had no idea how much heroin or oxy or whatever they were buying cost.

  Even worse than theft, what about the home invasions she’d heard about, she thought, as she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around herself. Remembering she was alone in the house and feeling vulnerable, she turned the lock on the bathroom door. True, there’d never been a home invasion in Tinker’s Cove, and her fear was probably irrational, but it was there. She didn’t feel safe in her own home, and she was terrified for her girls. She couldn’t erase the memory of that terrible episode in New Hampshire that had dominated the news for so long, when two crazy men broke into a home and raped a mother in front of her two preteen daughters, who they’d tied to their beds. After strangling the mother they’d torched the house, and the girls died from smoke inhalation.

  The story went on for months as new details were revealed, the suspects caught, and the trial unfolded. A scratch and whine from the other side of the door, undoubtedly Libby looking for her breakfast, reminded Lucy that those particular criminals had even killed the family dog. Only the father, who’d been at work, was spared.

  “Okay, okay,” she said, opening the door cautiously and allowing Libby to stick her nose through the crack. Summoning her courage she opened the door and proceeded down the hall to her bedroom, accompanied by the dog, who jumped on the unmade bed and rolled around, legs in the air. Then she jumped off, ran to the door, and gave a sharp yip, reminding Lucy that Libby hadn’t had her breakfast yet.

  Lucy dressed quickly, throwing on her usual jeans and sweater. She combed and scrunched her damp hair, grabbed her shoes and socks, and hurried downstairs barefoot. In the kitchen, she dumped some kibble into Libby’s bowl, poured some cereal into her own favorite bowl, and poured out the last of the morning coffee into a mug.

  The headline in the morning paper, the Press Herald, wasn’t encouraging. REGION TOPS IN OPIOID DEATHS . A quick read revealed that Massachusetts had the most overdoses, but Maine and the other New England states weren’t far behind. And no wonder, she thought, tossing the paper aside with a snort, since the cops were letting the dealers operate in broad daylight.

  When she arrived at the Pennysaver office, she wasted no time telling Ted what she had seen earlier that morning. “I couldn’t believe it, Ted,” she declared as she shrugged out of her barn coat and hung it on the coat rack. “There was a little BMW in the parking lot, idling there, and other cars came and went, stopping only for a minute. Sometimes they drove off together. It was creepy and scary. They’re dealing drugs practically in my backyard.”

  “Right out in the open, at the pond?” asked Phyllis, furrowing her brows over the harlequin reading glasses perched on her nose. Today she was wearing a brightly colored floral print jersey topped with a magenta cardigan that closely matched the color of her dyed hair.

  “Are you sure it was drug deals?” asked Ted in a doubtful tone. “Maybe they were sales reps, getting samples or price lists or something like that.”

  “No,” said Lucy, shaking her head. “It was all very fast and furtive. They hardly spoke a word to each other, not chatty like colleagues would be.”

  “I guess you better give Chief Kirwan a call. Ask him if he’s aware of the situation.”

  “And if not, why not? And if he is, why isn’t he doing anything to stop it?” said Phyllis with a sharp nod that made the wattles under her chin quiver. “Especially since that poor little Alison Franklin died there. She probably got the drugs that killed her from that guy.”

  “I’m on it,” said Lucy, seating herself at her desk and booting up her PC. While she waited for the ancient machine to rouse itself, she worked out what she would say to Jim Kirwan. This was a delicate situation and she didn’t want to put him on the defensive. If she was going to get any information out of him, she needed to make it very clear that she wasn’t criticizing the department or his management.

  “Good morning, Chief,” she began. “How are you?”

  “Just fine, and you?” he replied.

  “Fine. In fact, I went for a run this morning. I’m training for the Turkey Trot.”

  “Good for you, Lucy, but I don’t think you called to ask my advice on training regimes, did you?”

  “Well, actually, I sort of am,” answered Lucy, quick to seize the opening. “My usual route takes me past Blueberry Pond and I saw some activity in the parking lot that made me wonder if it was a safe place to be.”

  “What did you see?”

  “A car was kind of lurking there. A black BMW with a man inside.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about him. We know all about him.”

  Lucy was shocked and troubled by the chief’s comment and continued questioning him, determined to get to the bottom of this strange turn of events. “I’m not sure, but I think he’s a drug dealer. And maybe he sold the drugs that killed Alison Franklin.”

  She heard the chief sigh. “First off, Lucy, the autopsy report isn’t complete and we don’t know what killed Alison Franklin. And second, I’m going off the record now, understand?”

  “Off the record,” said Lucy, eager to hear more.

  “Okay, this discovery of yours isn’t news to me or anyone in the department. We patrol the Blueberry Pond area regularly and keep an eye on the situation, but we don’t interfere for a number of reasons. One is that we have quite a few people here in town who are struggling with dependency and we know who this dealer is—”

  Lucy was quick to interrupt. “Who is he?” she demanded.

  “He’s responsible and his drugs are clean,” continued the chief, ignoring her question. “If we cut off this supply, they’ll end up going to riskier dealers, getting tainted stuff and dying.”

  “But wouldn’t it be better if they went into rehab and got clean?” asked Lucy, shocked at what she was hearing.

  “Sure, but this is the real world we’re living in. I’m not saying this is a perfect solution. Personally I don’t like it, but I have limited options. And I’ve got meager resources. I don’t have all the officers I need and I don’t have the budget I need to handle other priorities like domestic violence, highway safety, alcohol abuse, even animal control. We’re strapped. That’s the honest truth. We have to leave narcotics enforcement to the state police drug task force. They’ve got the knowledge and expertise and they focus on the big dealers.”

  “But those drug task force investigations take months,” protested Lucy.

  “Exactly.” He paused. “That’s because it’s very difficult to prosecute these cases. Every i has to be dotted and every t crossed. These task force members know what they’re doing and they do it well.”

  “Have you passed on information about this dealer?” asked Lucy.

  “Yes, we have,” he replied. “And now, I have other matters on my desk.”

  “Right,” said Lucy, taking the hint. “And thanks.”

  Ted was all over her as soon as she ended the call. “Off the record? Did you agree to go off the record?” he demanded.

  “I had to or I wouldn’t have gotten anything out of him. It’s a bad business. They know about the dealer. They know who he is, but the chief said all they’re doing is ‘keeping an eye on the situation.’ ”

  “Are you kidding me?” asked Ted, looking puzzled.

  “No. That’s what he said. They have passed on his identity to the drug task force. He said
his department is stretched to the limit without attempting to go after drug dealers.”

  “But people are dying,” said Phyllis. “I think of that poor girl, drowning like that because of drugs. I can’t get her out of my mind.”

  “This isn’t acceptable,” said Ted. “If the police aren’t going to do anything, I think we have to. The dealing is bad, but the police cover-up is worse.”

  “I agree,” said Lucy. “We can investigate this ourselves. We don’t have to break my promise to the chief about keeping what he said off the record, I saw the dealer myself. We can follow up on our own.”

  “The chief’s not going to be happy, and he’s got a lot of relatives in town jobs. You’ll never get a word out of any Kirwans in the future,” warned Phyllis.

  Lucy knew Phyllis was right. Dot Kirwan, the matriarch of the clan, worked as a cashier at the IGA, where she picked up a lot of newsworthy information that she passed along. Her numerous offspring, children and even grandchildren, had jobs in the police and fire department, the highway department, and the schools. Lucy would hate to lose Dot as a source, and more important, as a friend.

  Ted, however, had no such reservations. “We’ll do an investigative report,” he said, warming to the idea. “We’ll stake out the parking lot, take photos, figure out who this guy is.”

  “And what if we see the police observing him and doing nothing?” asked Lucy.

  “We report it,” declared Ted with enthusiasm. “That’s what we do. We tell the truth, the whole truth, and this will be a big, breakthrough story. It will not only show that opioid addiction is a problem that crosses ethnic and class lines, that it touches all of us, but it will also show that the police, the people we expect to fight the war on drugs, are AWOL.”

  “So tomorrow . . .” began Lucy.

  “We stake out Blueberry Pond,” said Ted. “Bright and early.” He paused, thinking. “Better dress warm.”

  Chapter Seven

  That afternoon, when Lucy returned home, she was surprised to see a snazzy Corvette parked in her usual spot. The only person she knew who had such a car was Matt Rodriguez and when she went into the house she found him in the kitchen with Zoe. The two were shoulder to shoulder, rolling out donut dough on the counter. Libby the dog was sitting on her haunches beside Zoe, watching every move in case a scrap of dough fell her way.

  “Hi, Mom,” Zoe sang out by way of greeting. Her face was flushed and Lucy didn’t think the fryer had heated up the kitchen all that much. Zoe had an adorable smear of flour on her nose. “You know Matt, don’t you? He’s helping me make these apple cider donuts for the Harvest Festival.”

  “Hi, Matt,” said Lucy with a smile as she plunked her bag on the bench by the door and hung her jacket on one of the hooks. “Thanks for helping Zoe.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” he said with a broad smile that revealed very white teeth and two deep dimples, one in each cheek.

  He was remarkably good-looking, thought Lucy, seeing him up close. He had longish black hair and arched eyebrows over dark brown eyes, a hawkish nose, and wide mouth. Even his ears were small and nicely shaped. He was wearing designer jeans, fashionable ankle boots, and a tight cashmere sweater that showed off his toned muscles—not the baggy jeans and flannel shirts most young men in Tinker’s Cove wore.

  “I have to compliment you on your kitchen,” he said, looking very serious. “It’s functional, but also attractive and honest. It’s a room with what my father calls duende. The closest English word is soul.”

  Lucy didn’t quite know how to respond. In her mind, the kitchen was a mishmash of things picked up at yard sales. With its battered cabinets and golden oak table that gathered all sorts of clutter, it looked nothing like the sleek designer kitchens she saw in the magazines. The compliment made her wonder about this guy who she suspected was more interested in Zoe than in Lucy’s decorating.

  “Matt’s a trained chef, Mom,” said Zoe, who knew very well that her mother would want an explanation for Matt’s presence in the house, which was a clear violation of the family rule against entertaining young men when no parents were home unless they’d been introduced and gotten the parental seal of approval. “We got talking when I interviewed for a job at Cali Kitchen and when I told him I had to make these donuts, he offered to help. He’s already taught me so much about pastry. There’s a lot more to it than I thought.”

  Lucy had reached for the jar of dog biscuits, a move which didn’t escape Libby’s notice, prompting her to abandon Zoe and transfer her attention to Lucy. Lucy raised a finger in the “sit” signal and Libby promptly obeyed, earning a biscuit which she promptly took to the dog bed in the corner and chomped down.

  “Zoe is going to be a great addition at the restaurant . . . if we ever get it opened,” he said. “She’s not only beautiful but she’s definitely got a flair for cooking. She really ought to consider culinary school.”

  Lucy didn’t like the sound of that one bit. “She’s already attending Winchester College,” she snapped, “and she hopes to go on to veterinary school.”

  He turned to Zoe with an expression of surprise. “You didn’t tell me that! That’s great! I love animals. I had the best dog when I was growing up. A beagle named Bismarck. He went everywhere with me.” He paused. “I missed him more than I missed my folks when I went to college.”

  “Was that culinary school?” asked Lucy, wondering how old Matt was.

  “No. I went to Pomona for a year and flunked out,” he answered, turning around and leaning his back casually against the counter. “My dad wasn’t about to let me be a dropout and pushed me to join the Navy. That’s where I really got interested in cooking. When my hitch was up I used the GI Bill and went to the Culinary Institute of America in New York state.”

  “And how long have you been working in the restaurant business?” she asked, busy adding up the years.

  “About five, I guess,” he said with a shrug and a big smile. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

  At least thirty, thought Lucy, which made him much too old for Zoe.

  “And are you married?”

  “No,” laughed Matt. “Like I said, I’m having too much fun.”

  Not with my daughter, you’re not, thought Lucy.

  Libby, having finished her biscuit, rose from her doggy bed, gave a shake, and went back to her previous spot next to Zoe. Lucy, realizing she had little to no control over a situation she didn’t much like, decided to go out and mulch the vegetable garden with compost for the winter.

  When she returned to the house an hour later, Matt was gone and six dozen donuts were neatly lined up on paper towels and cooling on the counter. Lovely donuts, perfectly browned around the edges, with a light dusting of cinnamon sugar. Really, she ought to be grateful to the fellow, but she wasn’t. She even resented the fact that she really, really wanted to eat one but knew she shouldn’t. She heard the TV in the family room and went in, finding Zoe on the couch with Libby, watching a cooking show.

  “Thanks for making those donuts. They’re beautiful,” Lucy said, plopping down beside the dog and scratching her behind her ears. On the TV, Ina Garten was adding a lot of butter to a pan of mushrooms.

  “You should thank Matt,” said Zoe. “I could never have made such nice ones by myself. And they taste fantastic. He put in some spices I never would have thought of . . . like cumin and red pepper.”

  “Red pepper?” asked Lucy, alarmed.

  Ina was cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking them.

  “Just a tiny bit. He said it would ‘liven’ the sweet apple flavor.”

  “That will have to be our secret.” Lucy could imagine how the usual festival customers would react to the idea of red pepper in their apple cider donuts. “What is she making?” she asked as Ina added grated cheese to the eggs.

  “A mushroom quiche,” said Zoe. “I have to say, I didn’t think much of her pastry technique. She used a food processor and Matt says that makes a tough crust. You can always t
ell, he says, if the pastry was made by loving hands.”

  Ina was now outside her shingled house in the Hamptons, serving quiche to her husband Jeffrey, who was sitting at a patio table. He really seemed to enjoy the quiche, even if the crust was machine made.

  Or maybe it was the big glass of white wine, thought Lucy. “Matt seems really nice,” she said, carefully weighing her words as the commercials began to roll, “but he’s quite a bit older than you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Zoe. “He’s not my boyfriend or anything.”

  “He clearly seemed attracted to you,” said Lucy. “Guys don’t make six dozen donuts for girls they don’t like.”

  “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard,” said Zoe, laughing.

  “Well,” admitted Lucy, also laughing, “it was a unique situation. But you’ve got to admit guys are nice to girls they’re attracted to, and offering help is one way to get acquainted. You’re very pretty. He even said so.”

  “He was just being polite,” said Zoe.

  “Maybe a bit too polite, too charming. I think you should keep things on a professional level. He’s really too old, too worldly for a girl your age.” Lucy sighed. “There are lots of nice boys at Winchester. Boys like Hank,” she said, naming a boy Sara had dated the previous winter. “He was so nice. I don’t know why Sara dropped him.”

  “For your information, Hank DeVries is a big loser and a druggie,” said Zoe, clicking off the TV and picking up the textbooks and notebooks lying on the coffee table. “I’ve got to study.”

  “You must be thinking of somebody else,” protested Lucy. “Hank was really into diving. Sarah met him at the college dive club. He was very fit and athletic . . . and smart, too. I thought he was a really nice boy.”

  “Mom, you should hear yourself,” said Zoe, tucking the books into the crook of her arm. “Nice is just a code word for white and Protestant. You say that you don’t approve of Matt because he’s too old for me but what you really mean is that he’s Latino, he’s got dark skin and black hair, and he’s probably Catholic. You’d rather have me go out with Hank, who’s blond and Episcopalian and wears L.L. Bean boat shoes without socks year round.”