Turkey Trot Murder Read online

  “Yeah,” said the long-haired guy. “She’s his daughter.”

  Somehow the realization that this young woman was not only beautiful, but also a child of privilege, made her death seem even worse.

  “Wow,” said Carstairs with a big sigh. “What a shame.”

  “Senseless,” said another. “So much to live for.”

  “I see it all the time,” said the EMT, shaking her head. “I’ll bet she was high as a kite on heroin or oxy.”

  “It looks to me like she was out for a run,” said Lucy.

  “That’s probably what her folks thought, too. But there’s a shack not far from here that’s a popular spot for drug users.” The EMT gave a wry smile. “I’d be willing to bet on it. This girl was using. Why else would she go out on thin ice? Nobody in their right mind would do such a stupid thing.”

  A tug on the leash from Libby reminded Lucy that she had other responsibilities and it was time to be on her way. Ted was waiting for her story, but that wasn’t her first priority, not according to Libby. Libby wanted her breakfast.

  Chapter Two

  “A monstrosity.”

  “Absolutely appalling lack of taste.”

  “Ridiculously ostentatious. ”

  As a freshly showered and dressed Lucy drove along Shore Road, passing the Franklin house on her way to work, she recalled the reactions of some planning board members when they were presented with the plans. Ed Franklin hadn’t gone before the board himself. He’d sent his architect and lawyer to seek the necessary approvals. And they’d succeeded because the plans had been cleverly designed to take maximum advantage of the town’s zoning laws.

  The structure was enormous, much larger than the other mansions on Shore Road, but at 14, 999 square feet, it was actually one square foot less than the town’s maximum of 15,000 square feet. It’s true that the roof was topped with an inordinately large widow’s walk, but those were allowed, and the house itself was only three stories high and just shy (by an inch) of the maximum height restriction. And while the roomy flagstone terrace seemed to extend forever, it actually stopped ten feet and one inch from the property line, more than meeting the required ten-foot setback.

  Lucy had covered the meeting and had quoted the architect, who had announced in a rather challenging tone, “We have not exceeded any of the local restrictions and have been mindful of traditional New England architecture.”

  She also remembered quite well the various reactions of the board members, who had no choice but to grant approval to the plans. Maisie Wilkinson had looked as if she had bitten into a lemon when she cast her vote, Horace Atkins had huffed and puffed for all the world like an outraged walrus, and Linc Curtis had glared at the applicants as if he could make them disappear by staring angrily at them. Committee chairman Susan Brooks had abstained, claiming a conflict of interest that Lucy suspected was little more than an excuse to avoid going on record as supporting the project. Only realtor Wilt Chambers had spoken in favor of the plan, saying it would increase the tax base and raise property values.

  As she drove by the house, Lucy thought it could have been worse. It could have been a modernistic glass box, for instance, or a faux Tuscan villa with a red tile roof, rather than the overblown Federalist-style mansion that now dominated the neighborhood. And even though it was huge, everything was in proportion, with oversized windows and chimneys, and a dramatic carved pediment calling attention to the massive front door which was made from some rare Brazilian hardwood. Lucy had heard that when seen from a distance—it could quite easily be observed from a boat bobbing on the sea it overlooked—the house seemed quite in scale with its surroundings.

  But no house, no matter how grand, could protect its inhabitants from the vagaries of fortune or shelter them from tragedy and grief. In fact, it seemed to her that wealth and success could almost tempt fate. She thought of John Kennedy, Jr., becoming disoriented and crashing his plane into the Atlantic, and Gloria Vanderbilt, who saw her son hurl himself from a fourteenth floor terrace, and now Ed Franklin, who had certainly not awakened this morning expecting to learn that he’d lost his beautiful daughter forever.

  Lucy was uncharacteristically somber when she got to the office, prompting Ted to comment on her glum expression.

  “Pretty rough morning?” he asked in a sympathetic tone. Ted was the owner, publisher, editor, and chief reporter for the weekly paper.

  “Who was it?” asked Phyllis, chewing on the earpiece of the jazzy reading glasses that either hung from a chain to rest on her ample bosom or perched on her nose. Phyllis’s official title was receptionist, but she also handled ads, classifieds, and event listings.

  “Alison Franklin,” said Lucy, hanging up her barn coat on the coat rack.

  “Ed Franklin’s daughter?” asked Ted.

  “That’s what they say. I don’t know much about Ed Franklin apart from the permitting process for his big house.”

  “That was quite a show, wasn’t it?” said Ted, who had relished the controversy that prompted so many heated letters to the editor.

  “She hasn’t been officially identified,” said Lucy, “but one of the EMTs recognized her.”

  “Well, write up what you’ve got,” ordered Ted. “We’ll say ‘tentatively identified as’.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy with a sigh, sitting down at her desk and booting up her PC.

  It was an old machine and slow to wake up in the morning, so while she waited she mulled over possible leads for the story. Her eyes roamed around the familiar office, where an old Regulator clock hung on the wall above Ted’s rolltop desk, which he’d inherited from his grandfather, a legendary small town journalist. Wooden blinds rattled at the window and a little bell on the door jingled whenever anyone came in. Entering the office was like taking a step back in time, she thought, wishing for a moment that such a thing was really possible. If only the clocks and calendars could roll backwards to yesterday, then Alison would still be alive.

  Lucy’s computer announced with a whirr that it was up and running and she got to work.

  * * *

  When the paper came out on Thursday the story was front page news, but of course everyone in Tinker’s Cove had already heard about Alison Franklin’s fatal mishap. News, especially bad news, traveled fast in town, and the tragedy was the main topic of conversation in Jake’s Donut Shack when Lucy arrived for her weekly breakfast date with her friends.

  “Such a shame, a young girl like that with her whole life before her,” declared Norine, the waitress, greeting Lucy when she entered the busy little café. “Your friends are already here,” she added with a nod toward the table in the back where the group regularly gathered.

  The four women had begun the weekly breakfast meetings as a way of keeping in touch when their children had grown and they no longer ran into each other at Little League games, bake sales, and PTA meetings.

  “So young and so very rich, too,” offered Sue Finch. With a perfectly manicured hand, she tucked a glossy lock of hair behind one ear. “Her father is enormously wealthy. Fortune Five hundred wealthy.”

  “Money doesn’t guarantee happiness,” said Lucy, slipping into the vacant seat and greeting her friends with a smile.

  “That’s so true,” said Pam Stillings, speaking from experience. She was married to Lucy’s boss Ted, and had wholeheartedly supported her husband’s struggle to continue publishing the Pennysaver despite competition from the Internet, dwindling advertising revenues, and ever-increasing production costs. “Good health, family, friends—those are the things that really matter.”

  “Pam’s right,” said Rachel Goodman, who was married to Bob Goodman, a lawyer with a busy practice in town. “Simply possessing money doesn’t guarantee happiness. In fact, it can cause lots of problems—guilt, lack of responsibility, family disruption.” She had majored in psychology and had never gotten over it.

  “I certainly wouldn’t want to swap places with Alison’s parents, not even if they had all the money i
n the world,” said Lucy, glancing up as Norine approached with her order pad in hand. “But there’s a big difference between having enough money and not having it.” Her tongue went to the new crown she’d recently had to get when a tooth broke, spending the money she’d been saving to buy a new family room sofa.

  “Okay, ladies. The usual for everyone?” asked Norine with a raised eyebrow. “Sunshine muffin for Rachel, granola yogurt for Pam, hash and eggs for Lucy and”—she paused for a disapproving little snort—“black coffee for Sue.”

  Receiving nods all round, she retreated to place the order and returned moments later with a fresh pot of coffee. “You know,” she said, filling Lucy’s mug, “I’ve heard people saying that girl committed suicide. She must’ve wanted to die to go out on that thin ice.”

  Lucy shook her head, unwilling to entertain such an idea. “I don’t think so. I hope not,” she said, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. “That would be too sad.”

  “Depression is an insidious disease,” said Rachel, adding a dab of cream to her freshly filled mug. “And so often it goes unrecognized and untreated.”

  “It was most likely an accident,” said Pam, stirring some sugar into her coffee. “The ice might’ve looked much stronger than it actually was. People get fooled. We have an accident like this every winter. Remember last year, when Lydia Volpe had a close call? Her dog fell through and she tried to save the beast. Luckily for her, Eddie Culpepper saw them struggling and managed to get them out.”

  “That was the first thing I thought of, but there was no sign of a dog or anything like that,” said Lucy as Norine arrived again and began distributing their orders.

  “That’s why folks are saying it must’ve been suicide,” insisted Norine, putting down Lucy’s plate with a thump that made the toast jump. “Or maybe she was high on something and thought she could walk on water.”

  “It looked to me like she was out for a run. She was dressed for a run,” said Lucy, who was staring at the pair of sunny-side-up eggs sitting on top of a mound of hash and thinking she really didn’t want eggs this morning. Truth was, she hadn’t really had much appetite at all since she’d discovered Alison’s body.

  “I guess we’ll never know,” said Norine, tenting the little bill and setting it on the table.

  “It comes at a bad time for Ed Franklin,” said Sue. “His new wife is expecting a baby. Due any day from the looks of her.”

  “His wife’s pregnant?” asked Lucy, doing some quick math. “If Alison was twenty, isn’t it rather late to be adding to the family?”

  “How old is this latest wife?” asked Pam.

  “About Alison’s age, I’d say,” said Sue. “I saw her at the salon when I was getting these highlights.” She tossed her head. “Expensive highlights, I might add, not that any of you have noticed.”

  “I noticed,” said Pam, dipping her spoon into her yogurt. “I thought your stylist missed a few bits.”

  “Monsieur Paul does not miss any bits,” said Sue, not the least bit amused. “And he was making an enormous fuss over the newest Mrs. Franklin. Mireille’s her name. She’s very young, very beautiful, and very pregnant.”

  “Exactly how many Mrs. Franklins are there?” asked Lucy.

  “At least two, according to Monsieur Paul. There’s Alison’s mother, who must be at least fifty or so, and Mireille, who I doubt is old enough to buy a bottle of wine. Not that she would have any business buying wine, not in her condition.”

  “That does muddy the waters, doesn’t it?” mused Rachel. “Imagine what it would have been like for Alison to have a stepmother who is her own age.”

  “And pregnant,” said Pam.

  “A constant reminder of this young stepmother’s allure,” said Rachel. “Not to mention her father’s sexual potency.”

  “Yuck,” said Pam.

  Yuck indeed, thought Lucy, pushing her plate away. She thought of the Franklin home, the mansion perched high above the roiling sea below, and wondered what emotions were in play behind those massive walls, and if some primal forces drove Alison to her watery grave.

  * * *

  When Lucy got to work later that morning she discovered Ted had a completely different take on Alison Franklin’s death.

  “You know, Lucy,” he said as she shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the coat rack, “I’ve been getting a lot of calls about this Alison. People are upset and most of them blame drugs. That’s what they’re saying—that we have to stop this heroin epidemic that’s claiming our young people.”

  “It’s true,” said Phyllis. “We’ve had at least three calls this morning.”

  “I’ve had some e-mails, too,” said Ted.

  “I’ve heard that theory, too, but I don’t think it was drugs, Ted,” said Lucy, remembering the hot pink fleece jacket and the running shoes. “I think she was out for a run.”

  “Lucy, people don’t run on thin ice.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know about the way ponds freeze. Not everybody grows up knowing these things. Maybe she’s a city kid. Maybe she made a very bad mistake. It happens—like when that trucker tried to take his semi under the old railroad overpass last month and got stuck.”

  “That was quite a hoot,” said Phyllis. “’Course, nobody dies of embarrassment.”

  “Well, all I know is that a lot of people are blaming this opioid epidemic and want some answers. It’s about time we put Jim Kirwan on the spot and ask what he’s doing to stop these senseless deaths.

  “You want me to call the police chief?” asked Lucy, sitting down at her desk.

  “Good idea, Lucy,” said Ted as if it hadn’t been his idea all along.

  “Okay,” said Lucy, anticipating the chief’s reaction, “but he’s not going to be happy.”

  As she expected, Chief Kirwan was immediately defensive when she asked what his department was doing to combat the opioid epidemic. “As you well know, Lucy, we are not the only town coping with this influx of drugs. Heck, it’s a national problem. It’s complex. There’s high unemployment among youth, limited prospects for kids who don’t go to college, folks can’t get ahead, and heroin is cheap and plentiful. Truth is, it’s easier for kids to get illegal drugs than to buy a six-pack. It’s not like we’re ignoring the problem. We’ve got a new program with the courts—we don’t prosecute if the addicts agree to go to rehab . . . but oftentimes there’s no rehab places available.” He sighed. “Facts are facts. We’re a small department with very limited resources and we’re doing all we can.”

  “I know,” said Lucy in a sympathetic tone. “People are upset over this latest thing. You know . . . Alison Franklin’s death.”

  “Well, people shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” he said in a sharp tone. “The investigation is still ongoing and the cause of death has not been determined. We don’t know if drugs were involved and we won’t know until the toxicology results come in from the ME’s office.”

  “When will that be?” asked Lucy.

  He snorted. “I wish I knew. The state lab is under-budgeted and understaffed.”

  “I won’t hold my breath then. Thanks,” said Lucy, ending the call.

  “Just as I expected,” said Ted, who had been listening to Lucy’s end of the call. “The same old, same old.” He paused. “Well, we’re not going to settle for lame excuses. I want to know what Alison’s family has to say. I bet Ed Franklin wants some answers and he’s the kind of guy who gets ’em.”

  “Ted, you’re not going to make me call him, are you? The man just lost his daughter. . . .”

  “And I bet he wants people to know what a wonderful girl she was, and how much he loved her,” said Ted.

  “The poor man must be beside himself with grief,” protested Lucy.

  “That’s funny,” observed Phyllis. “You called him poor, but he’s not poor. He’s probably the richest man in the state.”

  “You know what I mean,” said Lucy, glaring at Phyllis.

  “There’s no rush,” said Ted.
“You’ve got till next Wednesday. Give him a call next week . . . when he’s had some time to get over it.”

  People don’t get over an unexpected, violent, tragic death of a loved one in a few days, thought Lucy, biting her tongue. Sometimes Ted got so involved in a story that he lost all sense of perspective or even decency. But noticing how he was hunched over his computer keyboard pursuing truth and combating evil one keystroke at a time, she admitted it was that determination that kept him going.

  “Okay, I’ll do it Monday,” she said, booting up her computer to check her e-mails.

  As it happened, she didn’t have to wait until Monday to call Ed Franklin. She was just about to leave the office later that afternoon when the door flew open, setting the little bell to jangling, and the man himself walked in.

  Lucy had never seen him in the flesh, but everybody had seen photos of the billionaire who was frequently in the news. He was most often featured in the business pages, announcing the construction of a new condo tower, golf course, or gambling casino. These projects were always described as fabulous, luxurious, or magnificent. Ed Franklin was a man who went in for superlatives and did everything in a big way.

  The man himself, however, was shorter than she expected, although that mane of silver hair and the ruddy complexion were unmistakable. So was the expensively tailored suit that couldn’t quite conceal his paunch. “Who’s in charge here?” he demanded in the raspy voice she’d heard on TV.

  “That would be me,” said Ted, jumping to his feet. “I’m Ted Stillings. How can I help you, Mr. Franklin?”

  “Look here,” said Franklin, plunging right in. “I’ve had it with all this political correctness, this so-called tolerance. It’s time we put a stop to these Mexican drug traffickers bringing heroin and marijuana here and poisoning our kids. Where is the outrage? There’s supposed to be a war on drugs, but if this is how we fight a war . . . well, it’s no surprise we’re not winning. I’m going to get straight to the point. This is what I want you to do—I want you to run an exposé of this filthy business. Let people know where these drugs are coming from and how we can stop it. I speak from personal experience here. I just lost my daughter. A beautiful girl. Gorgeous, and smart, too. I know what I’m talking about. It’s these filthy Mexicans and we’ve got to get them out of the country.”