Turkey Trot Murder Read online

  Books by Leslie Meier

  MISTLETOE MURDER

  TIPPY TOE MURDER

  TRICK OR TREAT MURDER

  BACK TO SCHOOL MURDER

  VALENTINE MURDER

  CHRISTMAS COOKIE MURDER

  TURKEY DAY MURDER

  WEDDING DAY MURDER

  BIRTHDAY PARTY MURDER

  FATHER’S DAY MURDER

  STAR SPANGLED MURDER

  NEW YEAR’S EVE MURDER

  BAKE SALE MURDER

  CANDY CANE MURDER

  ST. PATRICK’S DAY MURDER

  MOTHER’S DAY MURDER

  WICKED WITCH MURDER

  GINGERBREAD COOKIE MURDER

  ENGLISH TEA MURDER

  CHOCOLATE COVERED MURDER

  EASTER BUNNY MURDER

  CHRISTMAS CAROL MURDER

  FRENCH PASTRY MURDER

  CANDY CORN MURDER

  BRITISH MANOR MURDER

  EGGNOG MURDER

  TURKEY TROT MURDER

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  A Lucy Stone Mystery

  TURKEY TROT MURDER

  LESLIE MEIER

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Books by Leslie Meier

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Leslie Meier

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Libary of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2017944848

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1030-7

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: October 2017

  eISBN-13: 9781-4967-1032-1

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-1032-0

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2017

  For all the Turkey Trotters,

  Especially

  Greg, Ben and Abby, Matt and Sam,

  Andy and Mandy,

  Em and Ari, Leon and Debi

  Prologue

  It was all over the morning TV news—the season’s first killing frost. It came later than usual, probably due to global warming. That was the theory, anyway. But come it did, finally, coating each blade of grass with sparkly white rime, sealing automobile windows with a thick layer of frost, reducing late green tomatoes to black mush, and changing chrysanthemum plants, whose color had faded weeks before, into shriveled black stumps.

  Alison Franklin didn’t notice these changes, but she did sense the sharp nip in the air as she stepped out onto the flagstone patio of her father’s house in Maine. She zipped up her fleece jacket and jogged down the long drive to begin her morning run. She usually went one of two ways. One route took her along scenic Shore Road with its ocean views and the other wound through the woods on old logging roads and circled around Blueberry Pond. A cold north-east breeze was blowing off the water so Alison chose the more sheltered woodland path.

  She was rounding the loop that led to Blueberry Pond when she heard the cries. It was nothing more than a yelp at first, a cry that could be the call of a crow or perhaps the yip of a fox. The calls came louder and grew clearer as she drew nearer to the pond.

  Realizing someone was calling for help she quickened her pace and soon spotted a familiar figure standing on the shore of the frozen pond. She’d been spotted so it was too late to turn around. Nothing for it except to make the best of the situation.

  “Alison! Thank God you’re here!”

  “What’s the matter?” she asked somewhat reluctantly.

  “It’s Scruffy! He ran out onto the pond and I think he’s fallen through.”

  Alison studied the pond, which had a coat of new ice. “Are you sure? There are no tracks in the ice and I don’t hear him crying.”

  “Of course I’m sure! Why would you doubt me? Listen, listen! Can’t you hear him? Oh, the poor thing. He’s growing weaker . . .”

  Once again Alison turned to the pond, casting her eyes along the irregular shore which was littered with large boulders, glacial erratics, most now covered with a thin layer of soil that supported bushy balsam pines and gnarled blueberry bushes, all hanging on for dear life. This growth made it impossible for her to get a clear view of the entire shore or to see exactly where Scruffy had gone through. She concentrated on listening for the poodle, hoping his cries might direct her, but all she heard was the sighing of the wind in the trees and the groaning protest of bare branches thrown against each other.

  “Stop dithering! Poor Scruffy. He can’t hang on much longer!”

  There was no way out, decided Alison with a sigh of resignation. The undergrowth along the shore was too dense for her to make her way around the pond without a machete, which she didn’t happen to bring along on her morning run. The only way she could find Scruffy was by going out onto the freshly frozen surface of the pond.

  The ice cracked ominously as she ventured forth, staying as close to the shore as possible, but it held and she gained confidence as she proceeded. A small spit of land covered with brushy growth extended into the pond and she made her way along it, grabbing onto overhanging branches for safety. Once she got to the end of the spit she figured she would have a better vantage point from which to spot Scruffy.

  She was almost there when a patch of reeds forced her farther from the shoreline. There was a sudden loud crack and the ice beneath her gave way, plunging her into the frigid black water. Her cries for help were loud and strong, shattering the early morning calm, but no one answered.

  Chapter One

  So the deep frost had finally come, thought Lucy Stone, stepping onto the back porch of her antique farm house on Red Top Road and surveying the withered mums that had been so bright and colorful only a few days ago. This recent long, extended spell of warm weather had been strange, even unsettling, she thought as she stretched her hamstrings. But today was more like it, she decided, grasping one ankle and pulling her foot to her bottom. This crisp weather was great for a run, a sentiment also shared by Libby, the family Lab. Libby was ready to go, and even though her black muzzle was now fading to white, she didn’t need any warm-up exercises. She was circling eagerly, throwing expectant glances to Lucy as if to say “Enough of this nonsense. Let’s go!”

  “Okay,” agreed Lucy, skipping down the porch steps and crossing the frosty lawn in an easy jog. She picked up speed once she reached the old logging road that wound through the woods behind the house, pushing herself to improve her speed. This year she was training for the Tinker’s Cove annual Turkey Trot 5K race, and she thought she might actually have a chance of winning in her age division.

  There were not many runners signed up in the women over-forty category, and those who were running were mostly casual runners interested in bu
rning calories before they sat down to a big Thanksgiving dinner. That had been Lucy’s attitude in the past, but this year was different. This year she wasn’t going to be cooking a big turkey dinner for the whole family. This year, well to be honest, she wasn’t sure what she and Bill were going to do. Since it would be just the two of them perhaps they’d eat out in a restaurant, or maybe one of their friends would include them in their celebration.

  Her feet pounded along the pine needle strewn path in a regular rhythm as she reviewed the various plans her children had made without consulting her. Of course she hadn’t expected Elizabeth to come home for Thanksgiving; her eldest daughter was busy with her job as an assistant concierge at the upscale Cavendish Hotel in Paris. It also wasn’t practical for her only son Toby to sit down at the usual groaning board. Toby, his wife Molly, and son Patrick had returned to Alaska where Toby had a government job working to increase and improve salmon stocks. It had been wonderful having the young family living in the old homestead while he took graduate courses at nearby Winchester College, and Lucy had really enjoyed spending time with her grandson, but that was a temporary arrangement. Now she stayed in touch with Patrick via Skype, setting aside a half-hour every Sunday afternoon.

  But, she thought as she allowed a certain sense of resentment to carry her over a rather steep patch of trail, it had been rather inconsiderate of the two daughters who remained home to make separate plans for the holiday. Sara, who was studying earth science at Winchester College, had signed up for a field trip in Greenland led by one of her professors, arguing it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and would strengthen her graduate school applications. Okay, muttered Lucy, huffing a bit from exertion, she understood. It wasn’t her preference, but she could live with it. No, it was Zoe, her youngest, who had really driven in the knife with a nasty twist. Zoe had announced only days before that her friend and neighbor Renée La Chance had invited her to spend the Thanksgiving break with her at Concordia University in Montreal. Montreal, in Canada, where Renee was a freshman.

  “Oh, well,” said Lucy, speaking to the dog running beside her with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. “We can’t always get what we want, can we?”

  Libby didn’t answer, but she was clearly enjoying herself, letting her drooping, silky ears flap behind and holding her tail aloft in an exclamation of doggy joy.

  Realizing they were drawing close to the Blueberry Pond where Libby might expect a drink of water but would find ice instead, Lucy decided to use the leash she had wrapped around her waist. She’d heard of too many dogs that had gone out on thin ice and fallen through. It was a story replayed every year when lakes and ponds began to freeze. Sometimes the owners were able to call for help from the fire department. Sometimes they were foolish enough to venture out on the ice themselves, which was usually a tragic mistake.

  “C’mere, girl,” she said, and Libby obediently approached, allowing her to snap the leash onto her red leather collar. Then they were off again, running side by side at a rather more sedate pace. The newly frozen pond would be pretty in the morning light and Lucy wanted to take time to appreciate it. This was something new, suggested by her friend Pam, who was a yoga instructor.

  “Live mindfully,” Pam had advised. “Be in the moment.”

  This was the perfect opportunity, thought Lucy as the pond came into view. It had frozen overnight, and the ice was smooth and glistening. The pointed firs on the opposite shore were a dark green, piercing a clear blue sky. She paused on the shore, holding Libby firmly by the leash, and took in the scene. This could be on a calendar, she thought. Maine in late fall, preparing for winter. Soon the pond would be covered with snow, the familiar woods would be transformed into a dreamlike fairyland, the little waterfall at the pond’s outlet would become still, frozen into a freeform sculpture.

  Lucy took a few deep breaths and banished all negative thoughts from her mind. There was nothing but her breath, the pond, and the panting dog leaning against her leg. She felt the warmth of the dog’s shoulder against her thigh, and savored it. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, feeling the delicious heat. Then she opened them and saw something in the patch of reeds that shouldn’t be there. Something pink.

  Maybe it was just a bit of clothing, something that had gotten caught in the reeds. She studied the ice, which looked thick enough to support a single person, but she knew these early freezes could be deceptive and she didn’t dare trust it. She needed to get closer to investigate that blob of bright pink, and she knew there was a narrow, hidden path occasionally used by trout fishermen in the spring. Now, however, after a summer’s worth of growth it was going to be tough going and she didn’t want to struggle with the dog as she battled her way through the thick underbrush, so she tied Libby to a tree. “Stay!” she added for good measure then began making her way along the peninsula, pushing branches out of her way and scrambling over rocks until she was blocked by a thick curtain of leafless hanging vines that she suspected was poison ivy. She couldn’t go any farther but was close enough to get a good look.

  A bit of hot pink fleece, she realized, and more. Pink fleece and long blond hair. She gasped, her hand flew to her mouth. Oh, no. She reached for her cell phone, fumbling with the zipper on the pocket, and dialed 9-1-1.

  As soon as the dispatcher assured her that help was on the way, Lucy made a second call to her boss at the Pennysaver, Ted Stillings. She was a part-time reporter, feature writer, and copyeditor at the weekly paper, and knew she’d stumbled onto a big story. And it was deadline day, too, which made it breaking news.

  “A woman in the pond?” asked Ted. “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Lucy.

  “And you’re sure she’s dead?”

  “Not sure, but I think it’s pretty likely,” said Lucy, her voice tight with dread. “I couldn’t get close enough for a good look. She’s too far out from the shore and I sure wasn’t going out there. The ice is too thin and the same thing would happen to me—I’d fall right through. I can’t imagine why anyone would do such a risky thing.”

  “Well, stick with it, Lucy. Deadline’s not until noon and I may be able to get more time from the printer. I’ll get right on that.” He paused, then added, “Get as many pictures as you can, okay?”

  “Okay,” promised Lucy, ending the call and making her way back through the brush to the logging road.

  She’d no sooner got there when Libby announced the arrival of the first responders. Her loud yips and enthusiastic jumps threatened to snap the leash that kept her fastened to the tree. Lucy untied her but held tight to the leash, watching as the town’s special brush-breaking truck lumbered into view. The regular fire trucks were much too big to negotiate the old, uneven dirt logging road so the rescuers had taken the smaller truck that was equipped to fight forest fires. The truck was towing a trailer carrying an inflatable boat used for water and ice rescues, and an ambulance followed close behind, lurching from side to side as the driver attempted to avoid boulders and potholes.

  “Where’s the victim?” asked Jim Carstairs as he leaped out of the truck.

  “Out there,” said Lucy, pointing to the reedy patch.

  “We’ll need to use the inflatable,” he said, spotting the bit of hot pink fleece in the distance.

  Lucy watched as two firefighters, apparently the youngest and fittest members of the crew, suited up in bright orange protective suits while the others unloaded the inflatable from the trailer and carried it to the shore. The guys in the orange suits fastened toggle straps that connected their suits to the inflatable, then began pushing the inflatable out onto the ice. They didn’t get too far before the ice gave way and one man plunged into waist deep water. Then they both got into the inflatable and began using oars to propel the craft through the mix of ice and water.

  “I’ve never seen one of these ice rescues,” said Lucy, speaking to Jim, who as captain was supervising the operation. “It looks really difficult . . . and risky, too.”


  “We train for them every year,” he replied. “The guys know what they’re doing.”

  “Any chance that the victim is alive?” she asked, watching as the two firemen struggled to lift the woman’s body into the inflatable.

  “Doubtful,” said Carstairs, striding toward the crew members who had remained on the shore and blowing a whistle—the signal for them to begin pulling on the rope connected to the inflatable, bringing the victim and crew safely to shore.

  Lucy snapped photos of the operation with her smartphone, noting that the victim remained motionless, showing no signs of life, and the crew members were subdued. The rescue operation had become a recovery.

  When the inflatable reached the shore, an EMT examined the victim, then stepped away, shaking her head. Lucy found herself drawing closer for a better look and was shocked to see the victim was a beautiful young woman, dressed for a run in a pink fleece and black tights. Her long blond hair, which blew gently in the breeze, was held by a jaunty pink knitted headband and an earbud dangled from its thin white wire. Her running shoes were top of the line, her sodden gray gloves were cashmere.

  “Any idea who she is?” asked Lucy.

  “It’s Alison, Alison Franklin,” said one of the crew members, a young guy with longish hair. “I’ve seen her around.”

  “Is she related to Ed Franklin?” asked Carstairs.

  Lucy knew Ed Franklin was an extremely wealthy new arrival in town, a retired CEO who had quickly become a force to be reckoned with. She’d covered numerous meetings and hearings where he’d tussled with local officials to gain approval for the oversized mansion he built on Shore Road. Once settled into the mansion, he quickly offered himself as a candidate for the board of health, promising to cut red tape and bureaucratic obstruction. Much to the surprise of the entrenched office holders, who took his candidacy to be a joke, he won by a landslide.