Gobble, Gobble Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Seeing Lucy, the woman quickly changed direction, veering toward the front door where the bodyguard was slouched on a chair.

  “What do you think you’re here for?” she demanded, confronting him. “How did this woman get in? Why aren’t you doing your job?”

  The bodyguard jumped to his feet and his right hand slipped beneath his jacket. “Mrs. Franklin told me to let her in. She said it was okay.” His eyes were on Lucy, watching every move.

  “It’s true,” said Lucy, making sure not to make any sudden movements and keeping her hands clearly in view. “I’m Lucy Stone from the Pennysaver and Mireille asked me to come and interview her.”

  “Oh, sorry, Lucy. I spoke to you on the phone. I’m Mimsy, Mireille’s mom,” said the woman, who Lucy realized was an older version of Mireille. She was heavier, and her frizzy hair was obviously colored, but beneath her carefully moisturized wrinkles, she had the same enviable cheekbones and little pointed chin. Like her daughter, she was casually dressed in yoga pants and ballet flats, though she had topped her T-shirt with a matching hoodie.

  “I’m sorry about this,” she added, giving the bodyguard an apologetic smile. “I’m a bit paranoid these days and I can’t wait to get out of here. Believe me, if Mireille wasn’t due any minute and hadn’t made arrangements to have the baby here, we’d be long gone.”

  “I think you might want to check on her. She just rang for the nurse,” said Lucy.

  “Thanks,” said Mimsy, hurrying across the hall to the library.

  The bodyguard was standing by the front door, which he opened for Lucy.

  “Take good care of them,” she said, catching his eye.

  “I certainly will,” he replied with a serious nod.

  Pausing for a moment on the front porch to take in the million-dollar view of the bay dotted with pine-covered islets, she felt a sharp stab of envy. Imagine being able to live among all this beauty, she thought, in a big, beautiful house with plenty of helpers just waiting to satisfy every whim. She grabbed the handrail and descended the stone steps carefully, comparing them to the scuffed wooden steps that led to her back porch.

  And then she remembered that her husband was healthy and alive and so were her children, and even though she lived in a modestly sized home, she didn’t need a bodyguard. Ed Franklin’s wealth hadn’t protected him or his daughter from sudden death.

  * * *

  When she returned to the office, Ted was eager to hear all about the interview. “What’s she like? What did she say?” he asked, looking up from his desk.

  “I think she just wants everyone to know she’s not a gold digger, she truly loved Ed, and she has nothing to do with his business affairs.”

  “If you believe that, I’ve got a bridge I’d like to sell you,” said Phyllis.

  “I do believe her,” said Lucy, who was hanging up her jacket. “In fact, she didn’t even know about the funeral Saturday. It came as quite a shock when I told her.”

  “That’s weird,” said Phyllis. “Planning a funeral without consulting the wife.”

  “That’s what I think,” said Lucy. “It’s like Munn doesn’t take her seriously, like she’s kind of temporary.”

  “Well, she is very pregnant. Maybe he thought it would be too much for her,” said Ted.

  “I wonder whose side he’s on,” said Lucy, seating herself at her desk. “If the will stands, Mireille’s baby will be the sole owner of Ed Franklin Enterprises. As the baby’s guardian, she’ll be running the show.”

  “I bet she’s really a crafty little wench, out to make everybody think she’s a little angel, while she makes off with the loot,” said Phyllis.

  “She’s got the looks for the part,” said Lucy, remembering how she’d been struck by Mireille’s beauty. She went straight to her e-mails, catching up with the messages she’d missed while she was out. She couldn’t miss the one from Zoe, which had arrived just minutes before, with the subject line in capitals: MATT ARRESTED.

  Quickly opening the file, she found no details. There was only a terse message, also in caps. MOM, CALL ME.

  CHAPTER 14

  Lucy immediately reached for the phone on her desk and called Zoe’s cell phone, which Zoe must have been holding in her hand because she answered immediately.

  “Why don’t you answer your phone?” she demanded. “I called and called, but all I got was voice mail.”

  “I turned it off. I had an important interview and didn’t want to be interrupted,” said Lucy, fumbling in her bag for the forgotten phone and switching it back on. “But I got your e-mail. Is this true?”

  “Yeah. Mom, he called me from California. He said he got a call from the DA that he was being charged with Ed Franklin’s murder and there was a warrant for his arrest. The DA said he should turn himself in, otherwise the California cops would arrest him and Maine would start extradition proceedings.”

  “Well, it was nice of Aucoin to give him that option,” said Lucy, thinking of the police shootings that were getting so much attention these days. By turning himself in, Matt would avoid being seized on the street in some sort of risky armed confrontation.

  “Are you crazy?” demanded Zoe. “Being charged with murder isn’t nice . . . especially if you didn’t happen to do it.”

  “Did he say why they think he did it?” asked Lucy.

  “He says it’s because he used to date Alison.”

  “What did you say?” demanded Lucy, who couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “Matt used to date Alison. I thought you knew.”

  “I didn’t know, but it explains a lot,” said Lucy, thinking of the antagonism she’d witnessed between Matt and Ed Franklin.

  “He said it’s that thing about husbands and boyfriends being automatic suspects. You know how her father gave him a lot of grief. Franklin kept saying how Matt was a Mexican, and wouldn’t let him come to the house or anything. I guess they think there was some sort of confrontation and he got real mad and killed him.”

  “I think there must be more to it than that,” said Lucy, suspecting that Matt hadn’t given Zoe the whole story. “They wouldn’t charge him without evidence.”

  “You know, Mom, you’re every bit as bigoted as Ed Franklin! People of color, people with Hispanic names, they get arrested all the time for crimes they didn’t commit.”

  “That may be true but I don’t think that’s the case here—” Lucy broke off in midsentence, aware that Ted was frantically waving his arms like a demented sailor signaling by semaphore to get her attention.

  “He’s the darkest person in Tinker’s Cove, Mom. Face it!”

  “Right. Look, I’ll get right on it,” said Lucy. “I gotta go.”

  “Let me know what you find out, okay?” Zoe’s voice had changed; she sounded like the little girl who used to beg Lucy not to go to work and leave her home in the care of her older brother and sisters.

  Ted was waving his hand in a circle, signaling to Lucy to wrap it up, and she glared back at him in response, holding her free hand up in a “hold-on-a-sec” signal. She couldn’t leave Zoe out on a limb. “I will, sweetie. I’ll call as soon as I find out anything. Hang in there. Try not to worry.”

  “Are you kidding?” Angry Zoe was back. “Innocent people get convicted all the time. Our so-called justice system’s rigged—”

  “Maybe it is sometimes and some places,” said Lucy, “but our system is made up of people, people like Phil Aucoin and Lt. Horowitz and Barney and all those Kirwan kids. They’ll do what’s right.”

  “I suppose,” said Zoe, sounding chagrined. “I guess I forgot.”

  Reassured that Zoe had calmed down, Lucy ended the call. As soon as she said good-bye, Ted was on her.

  “Pam wants you to call her—” he began, only to be interrupted by Lucy.

  “Hold on a sec. My daughter got a call from Matt Rodriguez in California. He says Aucoin is charging him with Ed Franklin’s murder and he’s supposed to turn himself in and await extradition.�
�

  Ted looked puzzled. “Matt Rodriguez? Really?”

  “The good-looking Mexican kid with the Corvette?” asked Phyllis, equally puzzled.

  “Yeah,” said Lucy, who was also struggling to reconcile the young man she knew with this disturbing new information. “Apparently he dated Alison, which means he was personally involved with Ed Franklin. It wasn’t just the business about the restaurant.” As she spoke, it occurred to her that Mireille hadn’t shared this bit of information with her, and began to wonder if Mireille had really been as open and forthright as she’d thought. What else was she hiding?

  “Thwarted love,” mused Phyllis. “That’s a strong motive.”

  “Well, I think they need more than a motive,” said Ted. “There are plenty of people in this town with a motive to kill Ed Franklin.”

  “Like pretty much anyone who had to deal with the board of health,” said Lucy.

  Ted was already on the phone, calling the DA’s office. “Hey, Phil,” he began, in a friendly tone that implied they were old buddies. “What’s this I hear about Matt Rodriguez being charged with Ed Franklin’s murder?”

  Lucy and Phyllis were all ears, but all they got was a series of “I sees” and “Oh, reallys” and finally a “Thanks for your time.”

  Ted replaced the receiver thoughtfully and swiveled around in his desk chair, facing his two employees. Moving slowly and deliberately, he placed one hand on each thigh and pressed his lips together.

  “So what did he say?” demanded Phyllis.

  “What have they got on him?” asked Lucy.

  “The murder weapon,” said Ted, sounding surprised. “It was hidden inside the restaurant, dropped between two studs behind new Sheetrock.”

  “How’d they find it?” wondered Phyllis.

  “She’s right,” said Lucy. “Unless they used a metal detector. And what were they doing searching the restaurant, anyway?”

  “Aucoin said they got a tip and were legally obligated to get a warrant and follow up.”

  “This is fishy,” said Lucy, beginning to wonder if Zoe might be on to something. “It sounds to me like somebody planted the gun to set him up.”

  “Like who?” asked Ted.

  “Well, there’s the anti-immigrant, anti-Mexican bunch.”

  “I don’t think they’re smart enough to think up something like this,” said Phyllis.

  “It doesn’t take a lot of smarts to hide a gun, especially if you used it to kill somebody,” said Lucy.

  “I don’t see those guys as killers,” protested Ted.

  “Well, there’s Ed Franklin Enterprises,” Lucy pointed out. “That’s a major operation that we don’t know much about.”

  “Right,” said Ted, looking as if a lightbulb had turned on in the vacant space over his head. “We’ve got to find out who they are and what they do.”

  The phone rang and Phyllis answered, promptly transferring the call to Lucy. “It’s your wife, Ted, and she wants to talk to Lucy.”

  Lucy picked up her extension and heard Pam’s somewhat breathless voice. “Finally!” she exclaimed. “Didn’t my husband tell you to call me?”

  “He did,” admitted Lucy, “but we’re kind of caught up in a breaking story—”

  “Well, this is breaking news, too. And good news, for a change. I want to get it in the paper. I’m here with the members of the Harvest Festival planning committee . . .”

  Lucy could just picture the scene at Pam’s kitchen table, where a group of earnest church ladies were listening as she made this big announcement.

  “And we’ve just done the accounting and it turns out this year’s festival was a record breaker, clearing just under ten thousand dollars!”

  “That’s terrific,” said Lucy, eager to get back to the big story about Matt Rodriguez’s arrest.

  “It gets better,” said Pam. “As you know, we usually distribute the money from the festival to local charities, but this year we decided to do something different.”

  Lucy had a somewhat disturbing thought, picturing the church ladies taking part in one of Pam’s early-morning yoga classes on a Caribbean beach.

  “We were discussing various options and one of our members mentioned that her nephew had become addicted to opioids and couldn’t afford rehab and, well, everyone seemed to know someone affected by this opioid crisis and we came up with the idea of helping people who want to go to rehab.”

  “That’s a great idea,” said Lucy, “but ten thousand dollars will send only one person to rehab. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It means saving a life.”

  “Believe me, Lucy, between the five of us we knew quite a bit about addiction and rehab and that’s something we discussed. It was Michelle, who is a social worker, who pointed out that simply giving an addict a free ride to rehab would be counterproductive. Addicts need to be accountable, she said, so we’ve come up with the idea of an interest-free loan program. Anyone who accepts the money will have to pay it back so we can help fund rehab for others. And we’re not going to pay the whole cost, either. Some medical insurance plans provide partial coverage for rehab, and family members can usually help, too. And there are charitable groups like the fraternal organizations and the police and fire unions that would probably want to help.”

  Lucy had to admit the church ladies had come up with a workable plan. “I think you’re really on to something.”

  “Well, we do, too, and we want to let everybody know all about it and get the ball rolling.”

  “How soon will this money be available?” asked Lucy, thinking of Hank.

  “At the moment, it’s just sitting in a bank account,” said Pam. “But that doesn’t mean we’re going to write a check to someone for ten thousand dollars. Every applicant will have to put together a financial package and formally request the amount they need and agree to pay it back on a regular payment schedule.”

  Lucy could just see those church ladies nodding along. “I see,” she said, convinced that this was a rare opportunity for Hank, if she could convince him to take advantage of it.

  “So you’ll write the story?” asked Pam.

  “Of course,” said Lucy, struck by the absurdity of the question. “You’re the boss’s wife.”

  “Great. We’ll write up an official press release and e-mail it to you today.”

  The wheels were already turning in Lucy’s head, and she was convinced that simply writing up the details of the festival committee’s plan was not enough. For the story to have a real impact it would have to show how the plan made a difference in someone’s life, someone like Hank. But how was she going to pull something like this together?

  First she’d have to convince him to agree to go to rehab, which he had said he wanted to do, but she wasn’t entirely convinced he really meant it. And then he’d have to start putting a financial plan together, which seemed like a daunting challenge for someone struggling with drug dependency. He would definitely need help for that part, probably more help than she was in a position to provide. And finally, she realized, as her heart dropped with a thump, she didn’t even know how to contact him. She knew he was no longer enrolled at the college, which meant he didn’t have a dorm room of his own but most likely couch-surfed among his friends or even slept in his truck. She knew he still had his pickup because she’d seen him in it at Blueberry Pond . . .

  “What does my wife want you to do?” asked Ted, crashing into her runaway train of thought.

  “Hot lead. See you later,” said Lucy, picking up her bag and grabbing her jacket as she hurried out the door.

  Ted and Phyllis shared a puzzled glance.

  “I thought I knew my wife,” he said, shaking his head, “but now it seems she’s brushing me off and giving news tips to Lucy.”

  Phyllis just shrugged and went back to editing the classified ads while Ted reached for his phone to call home.

  Lucy knew it was a long shot, but it was the only shot she had. The drive home to the house took fifteen
minutes or so, changing into her running clothes took another five, and then she was back on the trail to Blueberry Pond. Libby was thrilled at this unexpected treat and ran ahead with her tail held high, tongue and ears flapping.

  Lucy suspected she was being ridiculous as she ran along the familiar path. There was only the slimmest chance that she would catch Hank buying drugs at the pond, and an even slimmer chance that she could get him to agree to go to rehab, much less figure out a plan to submit to the church ladies. What will be, will be, she told herself, repeating it like a mantra as her feet hit the path in an even pace. What will be, will be . . .

  With a series of sharp barks, Libby announced their arrival in the Blueberry Pond parking lot and Lucy miraculously spotted Hank’s parked pickup truck. She was panting as she approached the driver’s side window where she could see Hank’s head leaning against the glass. For a second she had a flashback to Ed Franklin’s murder.

  Then Hank moved his head and he saw her and the dog. “Hey,” he said, rolling down the window

  “Hey,” said Lucy, eyeing him skeptically. He was unshaven and seemed lethargic, and he looked as if he could use a shower and clean clothes. “Are you high?”

  He considered his state carefully. “Coming down, I’d say.”

  “You’re good for a talk?” asked Lucy, chest heaving from exertion and also a certain amount of anxiety. She’d never done anything like this before.

  “Sure. But I don’t want a sermon.”

  “Funny you should say that,” she began, launching into an outline of the church ladies’ plan.

  When she’d finished, Hank shook his head. “It’s a great idea, but I wouldn’t know how to begin.”

  “Your folks have got money,” said Lucy.

  “I’d have to tell them that I’ve been using,” said Hank. “They don’t even know I dropped out of college.”

  “Well, telling them would be an important step toward recovery. Believe me, I’m a mom and I’d rather know the truth about my kids. And besides, I think you’re kidding yourself if you think they don’t know. They certainly suspect something bad is going on with you.”