Turkey Trot Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “Do you want to go to the reception?” Lucy asked her daughter, who was stuffing a wad of damp tissues into her purse. “We could skip it. With all these people I don’t think we’ll be missed.”

  “Oh, no. I want to tell her folks how kind she was to me. You know, when I had that flu last month and missed some classes she offered to go over her notes with me.” Zoe sniffed. “She didn’t have to do that, you know.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy as the usher released them from their pew, allowing them to join the stream of mourners leaving the church. She had been relieved when the pastor announced the interment of the ashes would be private, unsure of how Zoe would react to the grim business of seeing an entire human being reduced to a mere pile of dust. But, like most everyone at the funeral, she was somewhat curious and eager to see the interior of the Franklin mansion.

  Shore Road was already lined with parked cars when Lucy and Zoe arrived, but it was a mild day and it was pleasant walking along the rocky bluff overlooking the ocean. Far below, the surf crashed against the rocks, sending up sprays of sparkling water.

  The family was not yet present, still occupied with the burial, which loosened the usual sense of restraint felt by the gathered friends and neighbors. People were greeting each other with warm hugs, chattering vivaciously and helping themselves to the generous catered buffet. Zoe went straight to the reception line, which was already forming, while Lucy accepted a small cocktail sherry from the tray offered by a waiter in a crisply starched white shirt. She was making her way through the throng to the corner where her friends Sue and Rachel were standing, when a hush fell on the crowd and Ed and Mireille Franklin entered.

  Ed held up his hand in greeting and said, “Thank you all for coming. The support of so many friends and neighbors means the world to me and Mireille.”

  Mireille, who was standing by his side, was remarkably pretty, very young, and extremely pregnant. She didn’t speak but bestowed a sad little smile on her assembled guests.

  “There is something I feel I must say,” continued Ed. “My son Tag is no doubt deeply grieving the loss of his sister and that is completely understandable. However, I want to make it clear that Alison was a much loved daughter and both Mireille and I are devastated by this tragic turn of events. It was just this time last year when Alison had her biking accident, and unfortunately became dependent upon prescription painkillers. Mireille was a rock in those dark days and got Alison into rehab, but as often happens, recovery wasn’t a simple process and wasn’t as successful or complete as we hoped and it seems that Alison began using illegal opioids. These drugs are insidious, terribly hard to beat, and the dealers are relentless.” He paused and swallowed hard. “Sometimes all the love in the world just isn’t enough. Thank you for your patience.”

  “Nice comeback,” said Sue, who had appeared at Lucy’s side, along with Rachel. They were both holding glasses of sherry.

  “I can see why he felt he had to say something,” said Lucy, noticing that Tag wasn’t present, and neither was his mother or stepfather.

  “Do you believe him—Ed?” asked Sue, sounding somewhat skeptical. “It doesn’t sound realistic to me—the trophy wife doting on the stepdaughter.”

  “I guess we have to give him the benefit of the doubt,” said Lucy.

  “Family members often have very different memories of important family events,” said Rachel. “A brother and a sister, for example, might have very different interpretations of a particular birthday party. The brother might remember eating cake while the sister was upset because there was no ice cream.”

  “Alison’s brother wasn’t talking about ice cream,” said Sue. “He seemed really angry about the way his father treated Alison.”

  “Or maybe he’s projecting his own feelings toward his father and the new, young wife who displaced his mother,” said Rachel.

  They watched as Mireille and Ed began greeting the people waiting in the reception line, and were about to get in line themselves when Mireille suddenly began to sway and was caught by her husband. He supported her as they left the crowded room, accompanied by a solicitous older woman who followed them.

  “Mireille’s mother?” asked Lucy.

  “I’d bet on it,” said Sue, snagging a second sherry from a passing waiter.

  Lucy noticed with some relief that Zoe had joined a lively group of young people. Deciding it was time to leave and tackle her long list of weekend errands, she thought she’d see if Zoe also wanted to leave or whether she’d prefer to hang with her friends.

  “I don’t want to interrupt,” she began, joining the group, “but I really have to be going.”

  “I’ll see you later, then,” said Zoe, who was sipping on a soft drink. “We’re going to stop by the cemetery together and say good-bye to Alison.”

  “That’s a nice idea,” said Lucy, rather surprised.

  “It’s the right thing to do” said one, a serious looking fellow with thick, black-rimmed glasses and a head of curly red hair.

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” she asked Zoe.

  “It’s something I want to do, Mom.”

  “Alison’s not the first, you know,” said a chubby girl with long, black hair. “There’s been two others already this year.”

  “Drownings?” asked Lucy, shocked.

  “No. Overdoses,” said Zoe.

  “Two at the college?” asked Lucy.

  “From our class,” said the boy. “Alison’s the third.”

  “And there’s been lots of close calls,” added Zoe.

  “We see the town ambulance on campus almost every day,” said the girl.

  “I’m really shocked,” said Lucy. “I guess I thought college kids would be too smart to be using.”

  “You’d think so,” said the guy. “But if they use even once, thinking they’ll try it, it’s all they think about. It takes over their lives. Believe me, Alison’s not the last. There’ll be more.”

  Chapter Four

  Ted didn’t greet Lucy when she arrived for work on Monday morning. He didn’t even look up from his computer. “Don’t bother to take off your coat,” he said. “I need you to go straight to District Court.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy, casting a “what’s up?” glance toward Phyllis and getting an eye roll and a shrug in reply. “Mind telling me what this is all about?”

  “The Downeast Drug Task Force made a big arrest last night. Three dealers. The arraignment is today.” He pulled a sheet of paper off the printer and handed it to her. “Here’s the press release with the names. Try to get photos, okay?”

  “Will do,” said Lucy, scanning the brief announcement that Carlos Cabral, 19, Manuel Perez, 21 and Eufry Victorino, 22, all from Queens, had been arrested following a three-month investigation. The three were caught in a Route 1 motel room with 50 grams of heroin, 40 grams of powdered cocaine, $5750 in cash and several firearms. The street value of the drugs was estimated to be $15,000.

  “I’m going to follow up on the official side,” said Ted. “I’m sure the DA will want to get some credit, as will the Task Force.”

  “I always wonder why these investigations take so long,” said Phyllis. “What were they doing for three months? It doesn’t take the buyers three months to find a dealer, does it?”

  “That’s one of the questions I plan to ask Detective Lieutenant Cunningham, who heads the task force,” said Ted. “Now, go, Lucy. You’ve got to get over to Gilead by nine. Time’s a-wasting!”

  “Trust me,” said Lucy, looping her purse strap over her shoulder. “They never start on time.”

  Despite the fact that trials seemed quite dramatic when presented on the TV news, Lucy knew that was because they were skillfully highlighted and presented for maximum effect. In truth, trials were extremely tedious and took a very long time to establish the most basic facts. Even arraignments, which were brief, required reporters to sit through a long list of other more minor offenders. Nevertheless, she felt a certain sense of excitement
as she followed the familiar route to Gilead, the county seat, to cover what was sure to be a big story.

  As she expected, the parking lot in the courthouse complex was packed and there were several satellite trucks from various TV stations. The Boston stations were all there, as was the regional cable news. She had to park in an overflow lot, which meant a long hike back to the courthouse, and by the time she made her way through the metal detector and had her purse examined by a gloved officer she was running late. Court was already in session, all the seats were taken, and she had to elbow her way into a spot in the back.

  Judge Irene Thaw was clearly not pleased at the sudden intense interest in the proceedings in her courtroom, and she wasn’t about to expedite matters for the benefit of the assembled members of the media. As usual on Monday morning, following the weekend, there were a number of cases to be dealt with including the usual allegations of driving while intoxicated, spousal abuse, and disorderly conduct.

  The air in the courtroom had become quite stale and Lucy’s back was aching when the case of the three alleged drug dealers was finally announced, causing the media crowd to snap to attention. Digital cameras and smartphones were readied, video cameras and tape recorders were switched on, notebooks were opened and pens were gripped to record the moment when the alleged offenders were brought into the courtroom.

  District Attorney Phil Aucoin presented the charges himself, accusing Carlos Cabral, Manuel Perez, and Eufry Victorino of Class A aggravated trafficking in Schedule W drugs, illegal possession of firearms, engaging in interstate commerce for illegal transactions, resisting arrest, and driving a vehicle that did not have a current inspection sticker. That last caused a bit of a chuckle among the gathered crowd.

  Aucoin had done his homework and went on to present the judge with the trio’s criminal records, which Lucy thought were remarkably long for such young offenders. All three had spent time in juvenile facilities, and Victorino, the oldest, had recently been released from the EMTC correctional facility on Riker’s Island where he had served eighteen months for assault and battery.

  When Aucoin finished his presentation, the judge asked the court appointed attorney, Linda Blackman, if she had anything to add. Her attempt to defend the three was not terribly effective since she pointed out they were unemployed, or as she put it, “unable to find employment”, and that situation had resulted in this misguided effort to make money by the only means available to them. She had no doubt, she said, that after further investigation the matter would be resolved as a misunderstanding. In the meantime, she wasn’t going to ask for bail because, since the three were from another state, it was unlikely to be granted.

  “Don’t you want to at least go on record asking for bail?” inquired the judge.

  “No, your honor,” said Blackman, getting evil looks from her clients. She placed the case file in her brief case, shut it with a snap, and was out of the courtroom before the three alleged drug dealers were led away by the court officers to their temporary accommodations in the county jail.

  “Wow,” said Portland Press Herald stringer Pete Withers as he and Lucy joined the throng leaving the courtroom. “Their lawyer didn’t want anything to do with them. That’s cold.”

  “Well, they do sound like trouble,” said Lucy. “And it’s not as if they were local kids with families in the area.”

  When she stepped outside she realized there was another dimension to the case. A group of demonstrators had gathered on a grassy area in front of the courthouse and were holding signs that read BUILD A WALL! DEPORT THE DRUG DEALERS! and AMERICA FOR AMERICANS! She paused on the steps and snapped a few photos of the protesters, which prompted one of them to confront her.

  “Why did you do that?” demanded a middle-aged man wearing a Carhart jacket and a red and black plaid hunting cap.

  “I’m a reporter for the Tinker’s Cove Pennysaver newspaper,” said Lucy. “You’re part of the story I’m covering. And besides, if you’re standing out here in broad daylight demonstrating, I assume it’s because you want people to know how you feel.”

  “I sure do want people to know how I feel,” said the man, changing his tune. “These scumbags come up here from Mexico and they get welfare and food stamps and free educations and Medicaid if they stub their toes, all on the backs of hardworking real Americans. That’s how I see it and it’s about time it ended.”

  “Right!” yelled another protester. “You said it, George.”

  “Do you mind giving me your name, George?” asked Lucy, who had written down every word.

  “George Powers. I’m from Gilead and I’m fifty-three years old.”

  “Thanks, George. I really appreciate your openness,” said Lucy. But as she made her way back to her car, she was troubled by the demonstrators’ sentiments. The three young men who had been arrested were most probably guilty, she thought, but that didn’t mean that everyone who had a Hispanic name was a criminal. And this was America, where everyone was presumed to be innocent until proven guilty. Wasn’t it?

  She had just got settled in the car when Bill called her cell phone. “Did you forget your lunch?” she asked.

  “Not my lunch,” he replied. “My flip book. You know, that loose-leaf with photos of my work. I think it’s in your car.”

  Lucy twisted around in her seat and spotted the book lying on the back seat of her CR-V. “Yup, it’s here. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Olde Irish Pub. I’m meeting Rey Rodriguez to discuss some renovations.”

  “I didn’t know you were involved with that,” said Lucy.

  “Me, either,” said Bill. “He called this morning, asking if I’d be interested. I’ve got my laptop with photos, but he wants something he can keep for a few days, maybe show to his investors.” Bill paused, most likely answering a question from Rey. “So how soon can you get here?”

  “Twenty minutes,” said Lucy. “I’m on my way.”

  * * *

  When she arrived at the harbor, she noticed several cars parked by the Olde Irish Pub. Bill’s truck was there, of course, but there was also one of the gray sedans used by town officials and a huge black Land Rover. She parked next to Bill’s pickup, grabbed the book he wanted, and went inside.

  When the Olde Irish Pub opened more than a decade ago it had been a big improvement over its former incarnation as the Bilge, a dive frequented by local fishermen and known for cheap beer and frequent brawls. The Olde Irish Pub was welcomed by locals, who enjoyed the friendly atmosphere, good food, and harborside location. As time passed, however, the owners seemed to lose interest and the level of service declined, as did the quality of the food, and people stopped going there. It hadn’t been much of a surprise when the restaurant was closed and a FOR SALE sign appeared in the window. The property languished on the market for over a year before Rey Rodriguez expressed an interest in buying it.

  “You can’t beat the location,” he was saying to Bill when Lucy arrived.

  “I’d open up the windows to take advantage of the view,” replied Bill, giving Lucy a wave. “Here’s my wife with the book. Lucy, have you met Rey Rodriguez?”

  “We haven’t met, but I saw him at the selectmen’s meeting. Welcome to Tinker’s Cove.”

  “Lucy’s a reporter for the local paper,” said Bill with a smile, “so you better watch what you say or you might find yourself in print.”

  “Never fear. We’re off the record,” joked Lucy. Hearing raised voices, she turned to see the town’s health agent, Jennifer Santos, and Ed Franklin emerging from the kitchen.

  The two were arguing and Lucy wondered if she’d spoken too soon; this might be a situation worth a paragraph or two in the paper.

  “I’m telling you, you can’t do this,” said Jennifer. “It’s not legal.”

  She was an attractive woman about thirty years old, who wore her long, black hair in a pony tail and dressed for work in the same flannel shirts and jeans that the contractors she dealt with also wore. The idea may have be
en to blend in with the boys, but it wasn’t entirely successful as Jennifer’s slender body was curvy in all the right places.

  “This is an environmental issue,” said Ed, “due to the location here on the cove. There’s no way I can approve a commercial septic system that would pour grease and detergent, including nitrates, into the harbor water. And that’s before we even consider effluent from the restrooms.”

  “It’s a perfectly legal system that’s up to code and it’s grandfathered,” said Jennifer. “It was upgraded less than two years ago.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Rey, crossing the room which was filled with tables and captain’s chairs tumbled every which way. “That the septic system isn’t good?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Ed, glaring at Rey. “The only way my board will approve a license for this property is if you agree to use paper plates. All tableware will have to be disposable.”

  “Like a fast-food place?” asked Rey, puzzled. “That’s not the sort of business I have in mind.”

  “Too bad, amigo,” said Ed. “I’m not, I mean, the board is not going to let you run dishwashers that will fill our beautiful harbor with grease and suds. No way, José. Got it?”

  “Is this true?” asked Rey, directing his question to Jennifer.

  Jennifer looked at Ed, then sighed. “I will have to look into it,” she said, biting her lip. “I’m employed by the board of health and I answer to them.” She cast a meaningful glance toward Ed. “The board doesn’t have the last word, however. They are obligated to enforce the state sanitary code as well as local regulations.”

  “How soon can I expect an answer?” asked Rey. “Time is money and I want to get this restaurant open as soon as possible.”

  “I’ve been in business for over twenty years in this town. I’ve done lots of renovations and I’ve never run into anything like this,” said Bill.