Turkey Trot Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “That doesn’t mean she wasn’t using drugs,” said Rachel. “Or maybe it was her first time.”

  “Nonsense,” snapped Miss Tilley. “I’ve been around for a long time and, well, you just get a feeling for people. She gave every impression of being a happy, healthy person. She radiated optimism.”

  Lucy couldn’t help thinking that Miss Tilley was drawing a lot of conclusions from very little evidence, but didn’t want to contradict her.

  Sue had no such compunctions. “That’s ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “You couldn’t tell all that from seeing her run past your house.”

  “Do you know her father is married to a woman the same age as Alison?” asked Franny. “And she’s pregnant.”

  “Her father is Ed Franklin,” said Pam. “Imagine being related to him.”

  “He is terrible, I admit that,” said Miss Tilley. “That big gold F on his chimney! So tasteless. But I have observed that very often the more horrible and vulgar a man is, the nicer his relations are. It’s as if they’re aware of his shortcomings and attempting to make amends. Just think of that basketball coach we had a few years ago. His wife was the loveliest woman.”

  “Well, if you don’t think she overdosed, how exactly do you think Alison died?” asked Lucy.

  “Well, I’ve heard all sorts of theories about drugs and even suicide or a tragic accident,” said Miss Tilley. “But I think she was murdered.” She didn’t even pause for breath after making that astonishing comment but went on to ask, “How much for the pie?”

  * * *

  Lucy was still thinking about Miss Tilley’s provocative comment after the festival was over and she went on to work at the Pennysaver office. Phyllis had taken the afternoon off to help her husband, Wilf, who was having cataract surgery, and Ted was covering a regional conference on flood insurance, so she had the place to herself. After she’d uploaded the photos she took at the sale, she googled drug rehab programs and made a few phone calls. She was surprised to learn that Hank was right and the programs did require up-front payment.

  “These folks are drug addicts,” said the admission counselor at a place in New Hampshire called New Beginnings. “We want them to commit to getting clean. Recovery is not easy. Our program is four weeks long and even with the big financial cost we have dropouts.”

  “What about health insurance?” asked Lucy, who had opened a file in her computer and was entering the counselor’s comments with an eye to including them in the series on drug addiction. “Drug addiction is a disease, after all.”

  “It varies depending on the policy,” said the counselor. “But it’s an unusual patient who has coverage. By the time they come to us, they’ve pretty much bottomed out. Health insurance is usually tied to employment and most of our folks don’t have jobs.”

  “So how do they come up with the money?” asked Lucy.

  “Family, friends, people who love them. Parents often patch together the money using several credit cards.”

  “Ten thousand dollars is a lot of love,” said Lucy, “especially if you’re paying twenty percent interest.”

  “It is indeed,” said the counselor. “But it’s not uncommon. We actually have a waiting list.”

  “Let’s add my young friend to the list,” said Lucy on impulse, figuring that it was worth taking a chance. Maybe, just maybe, something would come up and Hank could go to rehab. In any case, the difficulty of getting into a rehab program would definitely be part of the series on drug addiction.

  She remained at her desk after completing the call, cleaning up the file which she’d typed while talking on the phone. The whole situation was depressing, she thought, thinking of the mess these young people got themselves into and the difficulty of getting out. What future did Hank have if he couldn’t get clean? She hated to think of him becoming a homeless straggler, relying on the food pantry for something to eat, or even worse, dying of an overdose. What a waste of a promising young man!

  The sound of a police siren penetrated her dark mood and she brightened up, realizing it was signaling the start of the high school football team’s pregame parade and rally, which she was supposed to cover for the paper. The team was having a successful year and would play on Saturday in the semifinal for the state championship. She quickly put on her warm jacket and grabbed her bag, heading out to join the folks lining Main Street where a police cruiser with flashing lights and wailing siren was leading the procession.

  The parade was a homegrown affair, featuring the high school marching band, civic groups, and of course, the town’s four fire trucks. The highlight of the parade was a flatbed truck carrying the uniformed team members, most looking rather self-conscious at all the attention.

  Lucy waved and clapped as the various marchers went past, joining the cheerful watchers standing on the sidewalk. She snapped photos of the high school kids in the marching band, the team members, and Jason Marzetti (Joe Marzetti’s kid) dressed for some reason as Uncle Sam and walking on stilts. The ladies from Fran’s Famous Fudge tossed wrapped candy to the kids, and she got a great photo of a little blonde tyke catching a piece in mid-air.

  The kid was adorable, a fair-haired and ruddy-cheeked angel, and Lucy found herself wondering if she would characterize a black child with a curly Afro as adorable and angelic, but hoped she would. She was suddenly looking at the crowd with new eyes, realizing that it was entirely white and mostly adult. Of course, Maine had a very small minority population, but somehow she had never realized that fact. How had she lived in this town for several decades without realizing this?

  She had grown up in New York City, riding the subway to her high school, sharing the train with all sorts of people—Hasidic Jews in hats and long black coats, elderly Asian women with shopping bags, mixed-race couples holding hands. She visited Boston from time to time, and there she saw Muslim women in head scarves, African-American women wearing kente cloth dresses and turbans and big gold earrings, and lots of kids of all races.

  Looking at the rather thin crowd with new eyes, she was shocked to realize most of the people were senior citizens. It wasn’t only Tinker’s Cove, she knew, that was largely old and white. It was most of rural New England, and no wonder. Property was expensive, housing was limited, and good jobs were even scarcer than affordable houses. There had even been warnings from demographers that the trend couldn’t continue, as there wouldn’t be enough young workers to care for the aging population. She hadn’t really paid attention, but there it was—the proof—right in front of her. Not only was she getting older, all her friends and neighbors were, too. And their children hadn’t stayed in Tinker’s Cove but had left following high school to attend college elsewhere and make their lives in economically vibrant places like Portland, Boston, and New York.

  Yet another siren was announcing the arrival of the cheerleaders, and Lucy made sure to catch some good photos of the girls atop the hook and ladder. They were dressed in the school colors and, unlike the boys on the team, were tossing candy to the crowd and enjoying all the attention.

  Putting her camera down, she gave the girls a big wave and one tossed a miniature chocolate bar her way. She caught it and tore off the wrapper, eating it as she walked along the street to the church where she’d parked her car that morning. As she walked, she thought about the circuitous path that had brought her to Tinker’s Cove.

  She hadn’t been born and raised in the little Maine town. Her family had been New Yorkers way back, tracing their ancestry to the early Dutch settlers of what was then Nieuw Amsterdam. Through the centuries, there had been various additions from Sweden, England, and Germany, but it was a matter of pride to her father that his ancestors had fought in the American Revolution, the Civil War, and two World Wars. While in college, she’d met Bill, whose ancestors included more recent arrivals from Ireland. After working for a few years on Wall Street, he’d begun dreaming of a simpler life as a restoration carpenter and they’d moved to Maine, buying the ramshackle farmhouse on Red Top Road and f
ixing it up.

  Their story was typical, she thought. Everybody in America, except for the Native Americans, came from someplace else. And Americans didn’t tend to stay put, either. Members of both their families had gone west and south. Bill’s parents now lived in Florida; she had cousins in Texas and Virginia. The country was a big jumble of people from all over, who continued to restlessly follow their dreams. That was the whole point about America, she thought, beginning with the earliest settlers.

  The parade over, the crowd was breaking up and the sidewalk was filled with people heading home. The afternoon light was already fading and the sky was taking on a pinkish hue. She’d reached Sea Street when she got stuck behind a young mother pushing a stroller and dragging along a tired preschooler, and was trying to get past when she heard people shouting. Turning toward the noise she looked down Sea Street to the harbor where she saw a crowd gathered in the parking area.

  She was tired and hungry, having skipped lunch, and wanted to go home, but she was a reporter and duty called. Reluctantly, she turned left and walked down Sea Street to see what the fuss was all about.

  As she drew closer, she realized the group was somewhat organized, engaged in a protest in front of the former Olde Irish Pub which now had signs in the window announcing new ownership. COMING SOON! CALI KITCHEN! She knew that Bill had planned to meet Rey there this afternoon to go over the final plans for the renovation and spotted his truck in the parking lot.

  Some of the people in the crowd also had signs. AMERICA FOR AMERICANS was one. Another read MEXICANS GO HOME.

  She was snapping photos when the camera was snatched from her hand and she turned to protest. “Give that back!” she demanded, facing a man she recognized.

  It was Jason Sprinkle, who owned a plumbing business.

  “No photos,” he growled in a threatening tone, giving the camera back. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of here.”

  “What do you mean?” she demanded as a thrown rock smashed one of the restaurant windows, shattering the glass and shredding the paper sign.

  Chapter Nine

  Lucy instinctively ducked and moved away from the group of demonstrators. Seeking shelter, she found it in the harbormaster’s shack where Harry Crawford was watching the scene from the open doorway. As soon as she stepped inside, he closed the door and locked it. The little waterfront office was about the same size as a highway tollbooth, and gave a 360-degree view of the harbor and parking lot. He quickly began closing the miniblinds, at the same time calling the police department to report the situation.

  “They’re throwing rocks,” exclaimed Lucy, who was standing by a window and peeking through the slats of the miniblind. “My husband’s in there with Rey Rodriguez.” The sun was sinking fast and the sky was now a fiery red, casting a lurid glow that was reflected in the pub’s remaining windows.

  “I’ve got a situation down here at the harbor,” Harry said, speaking into the phone. “There’s a mob protest that’s turning violent.”

  Lucy was hanging on every word, at the same time following the action outside, terribly fearful for Bill’s safety.

  When Harry put the phone down, his worried expression wasn’t encouraging.

  “I don’t think we’re going to get much help, at least not right away. All the officers are working the pep rally.” He still bore traces of the tan he’d acquired during the summer when he was out on the water every day patrolling the harbor. Peeking through the blinds, he was also keeping an eye on the protesters, and he remained on the line, updating the dispatcher on the demonstration. Turning to Lucy he asked, “Who’s out there anyway? The dispatcher wants to know.”

  “I recognized Jason Sprinkle and Link Peterson. He used to play Little League with my son Toby,” said Lucy. “I think it’s mostly those guys who hang out at the roadhouse on Route 1, like Zeke Bumpus. Not exactly up-and-comers.”

  Harry nodded. “I call ’em Left Behinds, guys like me, except they weren’t lucky enough to get full-time jobs with benefits. Those guys have a lot of resentment. I’ve felt it when I’ve had to deal with them for going too fast in the no-wake zone or fouling the water.”

  “This isn’t a spontaneous thing. It didn’t just happen. Somebody must have organized this,” said Lucy, watching nervously as a handful of bearded and leather-suited newcomers arrived on motorcycles, roaring into the harbor parking area to join the demonstration. They were greeted with a loud roar from the crowd, some of whom were holding signs that they waved enthusiastically. The lights in the parking lot had now switched on and Lucy could clearly see the crowd’s enthusiastic reaction. There was a great deal of hand shaking and backslapping, and a roar of approval when one of the motorcyclists produced a heavy chain from his saddlebag and displayed it in a menacing manner.

  “I don’t like this at all,” said Lucy, thinking of Bill and Rey, who were trapped inside the restaurant. “Where are the cops? This is more important than the parade. What about the sheriff or the state troopers?”

  She was nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other and biting her lip as she peered out the window through the slats of a miniblind.

  Harry came to a decision. “It would take them a half hour to get here, minimum. It’s up to me. I’m gonna go tell them to disperse,” he said. “I’m responsible for security here at the harbor. It’s my job. I can’t just hide in here.”

  “You can’t go out there by yourself, all alone,” protested Lucy. “There’s at least thirty of them and only one of you. You need reinforcements with riot gear.”

  “The cavalry’s not coming,” said Harry, ducking through the door just as a woman’s scream pierced the chilly air.

  All heads turned, including Lucy’s. She had stepped into the open doorway and immediately spotted Ruth Lawson, the Community Church organist, standing between two parked cars, shrieking and pointing into the larger one, a black SUV parked beneath a tall streetlight.

  “He’s bleeding!” she yelled.

  Harry immediately changed direction, abandoning the demonstrators and running toward the frantic woman. He yelled over his shoulder to Lucy, telling her to call 9-1-1 and to bring the first aid kit that hung on the wall.

  Lucy grabbed the kit and began running toward the SUV, using her cell phone to call for help. She and Harry were the first to reach Ruth, a tall woman whose steel gray hair was tightly permed, but the demonstrators soon came charging across the lot from the restaurant to the line of parked cars. Lucy realized the SUV was Ed Franklin’s Range Rover, and a quick glance through the shattered driver’s-side window revealed he was beyond help. A good part of his skull was gone and blood was spattered everywhere, as well as globs of matter she thought must be bits of his brain. The first aid box was useless. Recoiling at the gruesome sight, she turned to Ruth, wrapping her free arm around the shaking woman’s shoulders. She didn’t feel all that steady herself, she realized as she led the sobbing woman away.

  Harry had placed himself between the restless crowd of gawkers and the Range Rover and was warning everyone to stand back. “This is a crime scene. Police are on the way.”

  “I saw him in the car, like he was sitting there waiting for someone,” babbled Ruth. “But the angle of his head wasn’t right. I thought he might’ve been taken ill or something, so I went closer to check on him and then I saw the—”

  “I know, I know,” said Lucy, guiding her to the harbormaster’s shack. “Don’t think about it.”

  “We should help him!” protested Ruth. “Get an ambulance!”

  “Help is coming,” said Lucy. “Harry’s there. He’s got things under control.”

  But even as she spoke, she doubted that Harry could actually control the rowdy crowd for very long. They’d been shocked into silence at first, but who knew how long that would last. Sooner or later they’d be looking for someone to blame, and she was afraid that person would be Rey . . . or even Bill, guilty by association.

  She tried not to worry,
focusing on Ruth, who was badly shaken. Reaching the harbormaster’s shack she set the first aid box down on the wooden step and awkwardly opened the door, still supporting Ruth who was leaning heavily on her arm. She guided Ruth inside and helped her into the office chair, then switched on the electric kettle Harry kept in the shack. He was a tea drinker and all the makings were handy, so Lucy dropped a tea bag into a cup with shaking hands, and yanked up the blind so she could watch out the window while waiting for the water to boil.

  The kettle was finally starting to steam when she saw one of the town’s two police cruisers coming down Sea Street with lights flashing and siren blaring, followed by the fire department’s ambulance. The two vehicles drove smoothly down the steep hill and into the parking area, stopping just short of the crowd. She continued to watch, glancing away only briefly to fill the cup with steaming water and to add two packets of sugar, then saw her friend, Officer Barney Culpepper, getting out of the cruiser. The flashing lights on the ambulance and cruiser were like a visual drum beat, ramping up the tense atmosphere, as he faced the crowd.

  Barney was a big man who had been a cop for most of his life and wore his uniform easily, expecting and getting respect, even if it was sometimes granted grudgingly. Only a very foolish person would attempt to tangle with him. He immediately began ordering the onlookers to step back, then after a quick look into the Range Rover got right onto his radio, reporting the death. He also cautioned the EMTs who were unloading a gurney from the ambulance, holding up his hands in a stop signal so they wouldn’t touch the body. The two EMTs shoved the gurney back inside the ambulance, then climbed back inside the cab, awaiting further instructions.

  Lucy held the tea bag by the string and nervously jiggled it a few times to hasten the steeping. As soon as the water turned the proper shade of amber she handed the cup to Ruth, ordering her to drink it and telling her she had to go out but promising to return as quickly as possible.