Turkey Trot Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “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 Twenty

  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 years’ 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.

  Reaching Parallel Street, Lucy found her rhythm and began passing the slower walkers and joggers. The running became automatic. The steady thump-thump of her running shoes hitting the asphalt became a kind of background music, and her mind began to wander as she left Parallel Street and began the climb up Shore Road.

  There, the air seemed to thin and a brisk ocean breeze refreshed and cooled her heated body. The sky and ocean were deep blue, a few oak trees still held on to rattling russet leaves, and dark green pointed firs stood sentinel on the rocky coast. The handsome homes that lined the road, most only occupied during the summer, had interesting architectural features that captured her imagination. Here a spacious porch where the railing was dotted with drying beach towels all summer long, there a tall tower where a telescope could be seen in the window, pointing out to the sea below.

  Approaching the Franklin mansion, Lucy was struck once again by its enormous size. It almost seemed terribly foolish, perhaps even tempting fate, to build such a grand house. A house was meant to shelter its inhabitants, and this house had clearly failed. Ed was dead, so was his daughter Alison, and now his pregnant wife couldn’t wait to leave.

  A water station had been set up in the mansion’s driveway and Lucy grabbed a paper cup, slowing slightly to swig a few gulps before discarding the cup in one of the barrels set out for the purpose. Something about the house caught her fancy. She thought the large, hulking edifice looked a bit like Ed Franklin himself. There was something unsettling about it, just as there had been about the man. Something a bit off-kilter or out of proportion. Something not right. And then she saw a young woman with long blond hair stepping out of the house and she stopped in her tracks, certain it was Alison.

  It wasn’t, of course. She realized immediately it was one of the volunteers bringing a fresh pack of paper cups out to the water station. Lucy shook her head, trying to clear her mind as she resumed running, but she couldn’t get that easy rhythm back. Once again, the image she couldn’t seem to shake, the vision that kept reappearing—Alison’s white face and long, swirling hair just beneath the surface of the water—came back to haunt her. What on earth possessed the girl to go out on that ice?

  That was the question that bedeviled Lucy. It was such a foolish, dangerous thing to do. Why did Alison do it?

  Lucy was running more steadily as she approached the gates at Pine Point. The thump-thump had become a why-why, why-why. And suddenly, clear as day, she remembered doing something remarkably similar. Something so foolish and risky, she could hardly believe she’d done it.

  “My bag! I dropped my bag!”

  Lucy heard the panic in the voice, and she quickly stooped down and grabbed the bag off the tracks moments before the train came thundering into the station.

  She could still hear the frantic urgency, and the memory of that close call was so strong that it took her breath away and squeezed her heart, stopping it for a moment. The pain was excruciating, piercing, and then it began to ease.

  She was running. She was running again and she was certain she knew who had sent Alison onto the ice.

  But what about Ed Franklin? Did the same person kill Ed? It was possible, she thought, even likely. As Mimsy had pointed out, it didn’t take a lot to pull a trigger, especially if you were gripped by a powerful emotion. Cops who feared for their lives shot unarmed people. It seemed to happen all the time. Gang members who’d been dissed took their revenge on city streets, often missing their intended targets and killing innocent bystanders. Lost souls were recruited by terrorist organizations and turned into lethal killers, and mentally unstable people heard voices that urged them to kill. Even love could sour and turn to murderous hate, as children rose up and killed parents or spouses took advantage of intimacy to pull a gun from beneath the pillow.

  By the time she reached Church Street and the turn back toward town, Lucy found herself practically alone. She could see the backs of the elite runners ahead of her, but they were some distance away, and she knew that most of the others were behind her. She decided to try to catch up to the leading group of runners as she approached the ancient cemetery where former citizens of Tinker’s Cove were presumably resting in
peace beneath lichen-covered tombstones that leaned this way and that.

  She turned to catch a glimpse of a favorite grave marker, a Victorian angel that bowed sadly over little Rose Williams, barely three years old when she died in 1854, but couldn’t make it out as a flash of bright sunlight momentarily blinded her. Curious, she slowed. As her vision cleared and the angel came into view, she realized to her horror that the blinding flash had not come from the sun but came instead from a huge carving knife. That knife was held in Eudora Clare’s hand and she was brandishing it wildly over Mireille’s prone and struggling body.

  Momentarily at a loss, Lucy didn’t know what to do. She was alone, she was tired and out of breath, and she didn’t have a weapon of any sort. She did hear the runners approaching from behind, however, and thinking quickly, grabbed one of the signs marking the course and turned it so it pointed to the road leading into the cemetery. Then she raced to intervene, praying that the other runners would be deceived and follow her into the graveyard.

  As she drew closer to the statue of the hovering angel, she realized that Mireille had been trussed up with duct tape and was lying on her back on a raised stone grave, twisting from side to side in a tremendous effort to avoid Eudora’s knife thrusts. Lucy could hear Eudora’s voice cooing like a demented mourning dove, admonishing Mireille to lie still.

  “It won’t hurt a bit and will be over in a minute.” Eudora aimed the knife for Mireille’s dome of baby belly. “Won’t hurt a bit. Not a bit,” she crooned over and over as she brandished the knife. “You took them all, my Ed and my little Alison, and now you have to give me your baby.” The knife connected with Mireille’s breast, slitting her shirt. “It’s not your baby.” Eudora shook her head sadly and thrust the knife yet again, slashing Mireille’s upper arm which began to bleed. “It’s my baby. My baby.”

  Lucy realized with horror that the unbelievable was actually happening. Eudora was attempting to cut Mireille’s baby from her body.

  “You can’t do that! Stop! Stop!” Lucy yelled, leaping over gravestones and throwing herself at Eudora, attempting to knock the knife from her hand.

  Eudora wouldn’t let go, even though Lucy had grabbed her arm with both hands, desperately trying to pry the knife from her grip. She was surprisingly strong, and Lucy found she had a tiger by the tail. She had to hang on for dear life. She couldn’t use her hand to punch or strike the crazed woman for fear Eudora would slash or stab her. She tried to use her feet, kicking at Eudora’s shins in an attempt to knock the woman down, but Eudora was able to dodge her running shoes.

  Lucy found herself weakening, tired from the race and the struggle. Her hands were slipping and she knew it was now or never. She had to gain control of Eudora. She took a deep breath and using both hands, forced Eudora’s arm upward, then threw herself at the woman, knocking her down on the ground. Lucy was in an awkward position, and although she had pinned Eudora beneath her, she was stuck on top of the struggling woman. She was beginning to doubt she could continue to restrain her when the first of the pack of runners arrived, feet pounding, and yelling.

  Eudora quickly dropped the knife and began screaming, claiming Lucy was trying to kill her.

  “What’s going on here?” inquired Roger Wilcox, giving Lucy a hand and helping her to her feet.

  Wilf Lundgren did the same for Eudora, careful to place his substantial bulk between the two combatants.

  “She attacked me,” claimed Eudora, pointing at Lucy. “She tried to kill me with that knife!”

  Her claim was quickly rebutted as Lily Kirwan, who was studying to be an EMT, pulled the duct tape off Mireille’s mouth.

  “Don’t believe her!” Mireille cried. “Lucy saved me! Eudora was trying to take my baby!”

  Hearing this there was a general gasp of horror, which gave Eudora a chance to attempt to dart away. She was stopped by the quick action of Wilf, who grabbed her arm and held her tight.

  “Nobody’s going anywhere till this is sorted out,” he said as a siren was heard in the distance.

  Lucy wanted to go to Mireille, but felt that since she’d been accused, she had to wait for the police. She had to be content to let Lily and a few of the runners attend to Mireille, comforting her, stripping off the duct tape, and bandaging her bleeding arm in fourteen-year-old Finn Thaw’s T-shirt, which he had pulled off. Lucy was also concerned about keeping an eye on the knife, which was still lying on the ground, and keeping a wary eye on Eudora, who had given up struggling and stood silently in place with a sulky expression on her face.

  The wailing siren grew closer, bringing Barney Culpepper to the scene in a squad car. He surveyed the scene, taking it all in. He saw Mireille sitting on the grave, accompanied by a handful of caregivers, her arm wrapped in a blood-stained cotton T-shirt with a pile of duct tape neatly arranged beside her. He saw the knife on the ground and collected it as evidence. He examined Eudora, noting the spatters of blood on her hands.

  Finally, he turned to Lucy. “What’s going on here? Some of the runners reported a scuffle at the cemetery.”

  “I was running in the race and I saw Eudora in the cemetery, flashing a knife. She had tied up Mireille and was trying to cut the baby from her body. She kept saying ‘It’s my baby,’ over and over. I tried to stop her. I tried to get the knife.”

  “That’s right,” said Roger. “When I arrived, Lucy had tackled Eudora and was struggling with her on the ground.”

  “Lucy saved my life,” said Mireille.

  Barney nodded and produced handcuffs, which set Eudora into a fit of hysterics.

  “They’re lying. They’re all lying,” she screamed, twisting free of Wilf’s grip and starting to dart away, but running instead right into Finn Thaw’s wiry young body. A member of the high school JV wrestling team, he wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides and restraining her until Barney applied the handcuffs.

  They were all watching him escort a protesting Eudora to the squad car, when Mireille suddenly moaned.

  “I’m in labor,” she said, panting and clutching her stomach. “I’ve got to get to the hospital!”

  * * *

  Nobody could talk about anything else at Rey’s Mexican Thanksgiving Dinner, which had attracted a huge crowd that somehow managed to squeeze into the basement hall at the Community Church as evening fell.

  “There’s plenty of food, plenty of food for everyone,” Rey said, busy ladling out bowls of spicy pumpkin soup and piling plates with turkey burritos, roast pork, and plenty of cranberry salsa.

  Lucy had signed up to help serve at the dinner, but he had insisted that she should sit this one out, considering her heroic actions that morning. She and Bill were seated at one of the long tables, along with Miss Tilley, Rachel and Bob Goodman, and Miss Tilley’s best friend, Rebecca Wardwell. Rebecca was almost as old as Miss Tilley, and was rumored to be a witch, but that was probably only because she kept a tiny owl as a pet.

  “Well, as usual, Lucy, you seem to have been up to your shenanigans,” said Miss Tilley, digging into her burrito with gusto.

  “Honestly, I was just running when I saw Eudora raising that knife. If it hadn’t been for the beam of sunlight that hit it, I never would have seen a thing.”

  “A higher force was at work,” said Rebecca, taking a bite of a turkey taco.

  “Talk about crazy,” said Rachel, stirring her soup. “That woman was completely round the bend.”

  “What about your famous continuum?” asked Lucy. “You know, how our mental states fall along a continuum throughout our lives, sometimes more balanced and sometimes less.”

  “I can say with confidence that Eudora fell off the continuum,” said Rachel with a nod. “Absolutely loony-tunes, completely crazy, psychopathic, out of her mind.”

  “Evil. She was possessed by the evil one,” said Rebecca, sounding like someone who had firsthand knowledge of the demonic, and had the battle scars to prove it.

  “Well, whatever you want to call it, we’re al
l a lot better off now that she’s in jail, along with her son.”

  “What I don’t understand,” said Miss Tilley, scooping up cranberry salsa, “is why her family didn’t take care of her. At the very least, she should have been under the care of a psychiatrist, perhaps even confined.”

  “They tried,” said Lucy. “Her husband tried to enlist Ed Franklin and Alison to commit her, but Eudora found out. That’s what began her murder spree. First Alison, who she somehow managed to lure onto the ice—”

  “Whoa there,” said Bob. “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “It came to me while I was running. I remembered how my mother had dropped her purse on a train track and I foolishly grabbed it for her just as the train arrived. I would never have done such a stupid thing except it was for my mother, and she was so upset about losing her bag.” Lucy paused. “It’s amazing, the things you’ll do for your mother—especially if you feel guilty about something.”

  “Alison probably felt guilty about leaving her mother’s house and moving in with Ed and Mireille,” said Rachel.

  “That is exactly why Eudora wanted to kill her,” added Lucy. “If she couldn’t have Alison, she certainly wasn’t going to let Ed have her.”

  “But why wasn’t killing Alison enough?” asked Bill.

  “Mimsy said she found a letter from Jon to Ed asking him for help committing Eudora,” said Lucy. “That’s why Eudora killed Ed. She shot him while he was sitting in his car, supposedly waiting for Tag. Ironically, she used a gun which he had given her so she could protect herself. According to Barney, she confessed everything, even hiding the gun at the old pub to cast suspicion on Matt.. She was quite proud of herself.. And, believe it or not, she fingered her own son, Tag, for the firebombing. She said it was her idea . . . to divert attention from the murders of Alison and Ed.”

  “But what about Mireille? Did Eudora really think she could perform an al fresco caesarean?” asked Bill. “And how did she manage to truss up Mireille? She’s a healthy young woman, even if she is pregnant.”