by Leslie Meier
Approaching Gilead, which was nestled in a valley and dotted with tall white steeples, Lucy thought it was quite an attractive New England town, apart from the county complex that included the l960s brick courthouse and the grim granite jail with its chain link fence topped with coiled razor wire.
In the past, she had been able to come and go freely in the courthouse, but after 9/11 everything changed and now she had to present her bag for a search and step through a metal detector. Once inside, she went straight to the clerk of court’s office, where Samantha Eggers had brightened the atmosphere by stripping away the dog-eared and faded notices that used to be taped any which way on the walls and replacing the dusty old Venetian blinds with attractive striped valances and simple Roman shades. The budget hadn’t stretched to cover new furniture, however, so the same old tired tables and chairs remained as well as the old-fashioned card files that stood against one wall. The computer revolution had not yet arrived in the county court, where lawsuits were still entered on index cards and filed away alphabetically in drawers.
Lucy noticed there was a line of people at the counter, which was staffed by two assistant clerks, so she went straight to the drawer marked CH-CO but found no card for Clare v. Franklin. That meant she also had to join the line filled with people filing lawsuits or inquiring about suing someone or checking on the progress of their case. Samantha Eggers was visible, busy at her desk behind the counter where she was available for consultations when necessary.
She glanced up from time to time to check on the progress at the counter and when she saw Lucy, she got right up and drew her aside to the far end of the counter. “What brings you here today, Lucy?”
Samantha wore her gray hair in a short, no-nonsense cut and wore suits and low-heeled shoes. Today she had left her jacket hanging on the back of her desk chair and was wearing a flattering light blue cashmere turtleneck and a gray skirt.
“A little birdy told me that Ed Franklin’s first wife is contesting his will,” said Lucy, speaking in a very low voice. “But I didn’t find anything in the card file.”
“It just came in and we’re processing the paperwork,” said Samantha.
“Any chance I could take a peek?”
Samantha looked away as if studying the effect of the new window treatments, then smiled. “I don’t see why not. It’s going to be public soon enough. Come on in.”
She raised the counter and opened the gate beneath, allowing Lucy to step inside the office area, which caused a bit of a stir among the people waiting in line. Samantha ignored them, and took Lucy to a vacant desk in the rear where she presented her with the original petition then went back to her own desk.
Eudora Huntington Clare and Taggart Huntington Franklin v. Estate of Edward Franklin consisted of twelve typewritten pages prepared by Eudora’s lawyer who happened to be her husband, Jon Clare. The words they contained were nothing more than various combinations of letters from the alphabet, but Lucy felt her face reddening as she read them. It felt as if they were alight and burning her skin.
The suit alleged that Mireille had alienated the affection of Eudora’s husband, Edward Franklin, and had poisoned his mind against his lawful wife by knowingly making false accusations against her. The alleged accusations included claims that Eudora was mentally unbalanced and accused her of spousal abuse, infidelity, and incest, such charges being wholly unfounded and entirely false.
The suit also claimed that the aforesaid Mireille Wilkins had falsely claimed to be pregnant with Edward Franklin’s child, which situation caused him to initiate divorce proceedings against Eudora Franklin. Furthermore, the suit continued, after her marriage Mireille Wilkins Franklin had continued to slander Eudora Franklin and had influenced Edward Franklin to disinherit her and her son Taggart Huntington Franklin, whom he had legally adopted upon his marriage to Eudora Huntington.
In addition to accusing Mireille of lying and slanderous behavior, the suit alleged that she had alienated Alison Franklin, the daughter of Edward and Eudora Franklin, against her birth mother. The most terrible accusation was last and claimed that Mireille had “knowingly and with malice intentionally provided illegal opioids to Alison, causing her to become addicted to said substances and contributing to her untimely death.”
When she finished reading, Lucy sighed and looked up, meeting Samantha’s sardonic expression.
“Do you want me to make a copy for you?” Samantha asked. “It’ll cost you.”
“How much?” asked Lucy.
“Twenty-five cents a page.”
“Quite the bargain,” said Lucy, handing the papers to Samantha, who promptly unstapled them and fed them into the huge copy machine. The machine was old and slow and produced the copies at a stately pace, but Lucy left the office with a complete set folded in her bag.
When she was crossing the parking lot she noticed several reporters she’d seen at the press conference, making their way to the courthouse. She assumed that Mimsy had been at work and the word was out; she could only hope that Samantha wouldn’t be as helpful to these others as she had been to her.
Fearing she had no time to waste before the media horde turned its attention to Jon Clare, Lucy put in a call on her cell phone to the law firm named in the letterhead which was the prestigious old-school Boston firm of Bradstreet and Coffin. Unlike Howard Munn, Bradstreet and Coffin had an automated phone system that provided the names of associates and their extension numbers. When Jon Clare’s name was not mentioned, Lucy took the option of pressing star for the operator.
“I will connect you,” said the operator without providing an extension number.
That made Lucy wonder exactly what relationship Jon Clare had to the office.
He did pick up, however, and confirmed that he was representing his wife, who was contesting Ed Franklin’s will. “It’s a story old as time, an attractive young woman stealing the affection of an older man and destroying his family.”
“I saw the suit. There are an awful lot of terrible allegations against Mireille,” said Lucy. “I find it hard to believe that a hardheaded businessman like Ed Franklin could be so easily manipulated.”
“Well, it will all come out in court, and more,” said Jon. “I can promise you that this is just the beginning. It’s going to be a sensational trial.” He sounded quite gleeful at the prospect.
Lucy found it disturbing. Once again she wondered about his professional status. “In future, if I need to reach you, what number should I use? I noticed the firm hasn’t given you a telephone extension.”
“Um, right. I’m just here temporarily. A friend is letting me use an office that happens to be empty. I’m actually, uh, retired,” he said. Something in his tone made Lucy wonder if that was the truth. Perhaps no law firm wanted to hire him, or perhaps being married to Eudora was a full-time job. “Use my cell,” he added, giving her the number.
* * *
By the time Lucy got back to Tinker’s Cove she discovered the media frenzy had begun. There were several vans from TV stations parked in front of the police station, and she spotted several reporters she recognized filming segments for the evening news.
At the office, she presented Ted with the copy of the lawsuit, but admitted she didn’t think she had a scoop. “I saw a bunch of reporters at the courthouse, just behind me, and they’re already filming reports out there on Main Street. For all I know, Samantha is handing these out to everybody.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” said Ted, and as it turned out, he was right.
That evening, when Lucy tuned in to a Boston channel, she noted with satisfaction that Michelle O’Rourke could only report that police investigations into Ed Franklin’s death were continuing, and that a court official had confirmed that Ed Franklin’s will was being contested but could provide no details as the paperwork was still being processed.
* * *
The rumor mill continued to grind during the week, however, and Wednesday morning’s Boston Herald had front page photos of
Ed’s mansion in Tinker’s Cove and Eudora’s mansion in nearby Elna, superimposed with head shots of Mireille and Eudora under the headline CURSED HOUSES. The little weekly Pennysaver, however, was the only paper that would have complete details of the suit when it arrived in subscribers’ mailboxes the next day.
CHAPTER 12
Lucy wasn’t aware of her big scoop on Thursday morning as she went out for a run, conscious that she’d been neglecting her training program and time was running out before the Turkey Trot. It was a misty November morning, and Libby’s black coat was soon gray with dew drops as she ran along, just ahead of Lucy. Libby always had to be first, which Lucy had heard meant the Lab considered herself the leader of the pack. Lucy didn’t agree. She preferred to think that Libby was clearing a path for Lucy and guarding her, the actual leader of this very small pack.
When she got home, Bill was standing at the sink, rinsing the egg off his breakfast dishes. “Good run?” he asked, opening the dishwasher and loading the dishes inside.
“Great,” said Lucy, panting and gently shoving him aside so she could fill Libby’s bowl with fresh water. That chore completed she returned to the sink to get a drink for herself.
Bill closed the dishwasher door and wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling the back of her neck, tickling her with his beard. She enjoyed the familiar embrace and leaned back against him while she drained the glass of water. Once refreshed, she turned around for a proper kiss.
“Napoleon famously wrote to Josephine, telling her not to bathe before he returned from war as he enjoyed her natural scent,” he said, stepping back, “but I gotta say a shower might not be a bad idea.”
Lucy pouted. “You’re not usually quite so fastidious and it seems to me that I put up with quite a bit of man sweat from time to time.”
“Well, that’s different. That’s a sign that I’ve been working hard to bring home the bacon for you and the kids.”
“Men are so weird. You just love all your various parts and bodily fluids. Must be the testosterone.”
“Right,” said Bill with a nod and a satisfied smile. “When you got it, flaunt it.”
“Well, are you going to be flaunting it at the Cali Kitchen?” inquired Lucy, glancing at the antique Regulator clock that held pride of place on the wall between the windows. “It’s getting late, isn’t it?”
“That job’s on hold,” said Bill with a grimace. “The millwork truck was egged the other day when they were delivering windows and the tires on the electrician’s van were slashed while he was working inside.”
“Any idea who’s doing this?”
“Probably some of those demonstrators. They’re not holding protests anymore. They’ve turned to vandalism instead. I don’t know where it’s going to end.”
“I’m surprised that Rey is giving up,” said Lucy. “He seemed so determined to move forward on the restaurant.”
“He’s not giving up, at least that’s what he told me,” said Bill, sitting down at the round golden oak table and grabbing the sports section. “He’s just waiting for things to settle down a bit. He and Matt are taking a little vacation. They’re going back to the West Coast for Thanksgiving with their family.”
“I thought he was suspect number one for Ed Franklin’s murder.”
Bill shrugged. “He hasn’t been charged.”
“Interesting,” said Lucy, heading up the back stairway to the upstairs bathroom for a shower. Pausing at the bottom stair she turned, struck with a thought. “You know, since you’ll be at loose ends for a bit, you could paint the family room. And there’s that closet door in Sara’s room that’s off kilter, and—”
“Enough, enough,” he said, holding up a hand in protest. “I’ll check in with some of the guys, see if they need an extra hand.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t want all that testosterone to go to waste,” said Lucy before making a quick escape up the stairs.
* * *
Freshly showered and blown dry, Lucy dressed for the day, keeping in mind that she would be meeting her friends for breakfast. Sue usually had something critical to say about her appearance so she took a bit of extra care, applying lipstick and mascara and choosing her best jeans and a new sweater she’d bought on sale.
She felt quite pleased with herself as she started the car and headed into town. Her route took her past O’Brien’s Turkey Farm and she planned to make a quick stop there to pick up a turkey for the food pantry. She wasn’t going to be cooking a big dinner for the family this year, so she wanted to give the turkey she didn’t need to a family that wouldn’t otherwise have one.
She passed the farm every day on her way to work and had seen the little turkey chicks grow into big, table-ready birds. Table-ready was just about the nicest thing you could say about the beasts, she thought, remembering that even as chicks they hadn’t been cute. There was something prehistoric about turkeys, with their naked necks and long scaly legs, and she was only too happy to see that the pens that once held the birds were empty and the barnyard was quiet. O’Brien’s turkeys had gobbled their last gobbles and were sitting in the refrigerator case, plucked and trussed and ready for roasting.
The farm store was quiet with only a few early-morning customers. Lucy wasn’t in a hurry so she browsed, checking out the various turkey-related items the store offered. There were oversized turkey platters, basters, roasting pans, and packs of the O’Brien’s own brining mix. There were also the usual T-shirts picturing a handsome Tom turkey in full display as well as aprons, dish towels, and pot holders. There were little onesies for babies, proclaiming BABY’S FIRST THANKSGIVING in big orange letters, with either a cartoon version of a tom or a hen with chicks. There were even turkey suits for pet dogs.
Lucy couldn’t resist taking a closer look at the onesies, wondering if Toby and Molly might be planning to have a second child now that Patrick was getting older and they were more financially secure. She was admiring the little piece of clothing and dreaming of having a little grandbaby girl when a woman’s voice broke into her reverie.
“Those are so adorable!” shrieked the woman in a voice that was much too loud.
Lucy turned to acknowledge her and recognized Eudora Clare, smartly dressed in a short fur jacket and carrying a huge Louis Vuitton bag that contained a tiny Yorkshire terrier. All that was visible of the dog was a little face with bright eyes, and a plastic pumpkin barrette attached between its ears.
“They certainly are,” said Lucy. “I only wish I had a little grandbaby so I could buy one.”
“Don’t you know anyone who’s expecting?” asked Eudora, examining one of the little garments with an expensively gloved hand. “I do.” She laid the onesie over one arm and stroked it as if it was a pet cat, “but I don’t know if she’s expecting a hen or a tom.”
“In that case, I’d go with the hen and chicks. They’re cuter,” said Lucy, who had noticed that while Eudora’s face was smooth as a baby’s bottom, evidence of a face lift, her wrinkled neck boasted wattles that a turkey would be proud of.
“I really shouldn’t get her anything,” said Eudora, stroking the onesie so hard that Lucy feared she would rub the design right off. “The mother, I mean. Face it, these presents are really for the mother and this one is nothing but a husband-stealing slut.”
Lucy realized Eudora must be talking about Mireille, and was surprised she’d consider buying a gift for the woman she believed had broken up her marriage. Some of the allegations from the lawsuit ran through Lucy’s mind and she couldn’t believe Eudora was ready to forgive and forget.
“Of course,” continued Eudora, spitting out the words, “it’s not the baby’s fault that her mother is a conniving little gold digger, and now that Ed and Allie are gone, the baby will be my only link to Ed.” She turned and stared at Lucy with tear-filled eyes. “Isn’t that right?”
Lucy felt uncomfortable being put on the spot and wondered if Eudora was somewhat unstable, perhaps even on some sort of medication. “I suppose you hav
e photos and videos and memories. . .”
“It’s not the same as a living person,” said Eudora, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue in such a way that she wouldn’t smear her heavy eye makeup. “That baby will have Ed’s DNA. It might even be a boy and look like him.”
“You have a son,” said Lucy.
“Oh, Tag’s not Ed’s,” Eudora said, crumpling the tissue in her hand. “I had him with my first husband. Ed adopted him, but he’s nothing like my Ed.”
“It’s hard to let go of the past,” said Lucy, “but you have to think of the family you do have, your son and husband.”
“But don’t you think I have a responsibility to this little mite? It’s quite likely that a slut like you-know-who will be an unfit mother. What would happen then? Imagine, my Ed’s child in foster care, abused and neglected.” Eudora pressed her botoxed, glossy orange lips together. “It would be up to me. I would have to adopt the child. I would name him after Ed . . . Edward, Junior . . . or Edwina, if it’s a girl.”
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself,” said Lucy, eager to get away from Eudora but somewhat concerned about her welfare. She was no psychologist, but this seemed extremely abnormal.
Fortunately, just as Lucy was looking around, hoping Eudora’d been accompanied by her husband or son, Jon Clare appeared, carrying a bulging shopping bag with the O’Brien’s Turkey Farm logo.
“You mustn’t chew this poor woman’s ear off,” he said, attempting to take Eudora’s hand. “I’ve got the turkey—it’s a beauty—and we can go home now.”
“I’m not a child,” hissed Eudora, yanking her hand away and stuffing the onesie into the Louis Vuitton bag, causing the dog to yip in protest. “Don’t treat me like a child.”
“Have a nice day,” said Lucy, seizing the opportunity to make her escape. She crossed the store to the counter and placed her order, then watched as the squabbling couple made their way out of the store to a large Cadillac Escalade. As she watched Jon holding the bag with the shoplifted onesie while Eudora settled herself in the car, Lucy wondered if she should report the theft.