Turkey Trot Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “I’ve got it!” crowed Pete Withers, peering at his smartphone and reading from Lucy’s story. “Right here. ‘Alison Franklin, daughter of billionaire Ed Franklin, drowned in local pond’ . . . blah blah blah . . . oh get this. ‘DA Phil Aucoin cautioned that the cause of death has not been determined. In light of the recent opioid epidemic, he said he is waiting for toxicology test results from the state lab, but added that these tests are now routinely mandated for all unaccompanied deaths.’ ”

  “So they think little Alison overdosed?” asked the New Yorker, blocking Lucy’s path.

  “I have no idea,” said Lucy, shaking her head and trying to slide by him.

  “What do most people think? This is Hicksville. People talk. What are they saying?”

  “You’ll have to ask them,” said Lucy, finding a gap and slipping through.

  “Hey!” somebody yelled. “There’s Deb Hildreth. Ask her! She works for the local radio station.”

  Poor Deb, thought Lucy, abandoning her to the media scrum as she stepped into the airy lobby and the door closed behind her.

  It was a typical November day, gray and miserable, and Lucy’s spirits plunged as she made the drive from Gilead to Tinker’s Cove. It was horrible to think that things like this could happen in the little town that she loved. Alison’s death was bad enough—it was always awful when a young person died—but Ed’s brutal murder overshadowed everything. The man was shot in broad daylight, right in the heart of town. It seemed incredible that such a thing could happen. Who would do such a thing? And why? Whoever killed Ed must have really hated him, she thought, finding it difficult to imagine how anyone could simply pull a trigger and blow off another person’s head.

  Of course, it happened all the time. Gun shootings were common occurrences in the US, and there were the constant reports of suicide bombings and assassinations and attacks on innocent people in Europe and the Middle East. Come to think of it, she decided with a sigh, it seemed that there were actually an awful lot of people who were not the least bit reluctant to take other people’s lives.

  * * *

  “Wow, you look like you lost your best friend,” observed Phyllis when Lucy arrived in the office later that morning. Phyllis was dressed today in a harvest-themed sweater featuring a design of apples and pumpkins, and her hair was tinted a flaming orange.

  “Not yet, but you never know, the way things are going,” Lucy said glumly, dropping her bag on the floor with a thunk so she could unbutton her jacket.

  “How was the press conference?” asked Ted, who was staring at his computer screen.

  “Crowded.” Lucy hung up her jacket, then bent down and picked up her bag. From the way she moved you would have thought it was filled with bricks. “There was even an obnoxious guy from New York and lots of people from TV stations.”

  “Well, Ed Franklin was famous,” said Ted. “Any new developments?”

  Lucy sank into her desk chair and leaned her elbow on her desk, propping up her chin as if her head was much too great a load for her neck to bear. “Killed execution style. I guess we could’ve come up with that on our own.”

  “Talk about stating the obvious,” muttered Ted. “No suspects?”

  “Aucoin’s playing his hand close to his chest,” said Lucy.

  “Dot Kirwan says it’s all hands on deck, overtime for everybody—vacations and off-time cancelled,” reported Phyllis. “She’s real upset since Patsy was scheduled for maternity leave next week. Now she’s going to have to work until she pops.”

  Patsy Kirwan was the police department dispatcher, just one of Dot’s many relations who worked in the town’s police and fire departments.

  “Of course, you can see why they’re so anxious to get the killer,” continued Phyllis. “Talk about cold-blooded. It gives me the willies every time I think about it.”

  In spite of herself, Lucy found herself smiling. “Somehow I don’t think we need to worry about getting shot in our sleep by some sort of serial killer maniac.”

  “Lucy’s right,” said Ted. “Ed Franklin was targeted. He was killed because somebody wanted him dead.”

  “Well, the one I feel bad for is that little wife of his,” said Phyllis. “She’s pregnant, you know, and even if she is a gold digger like everyone says, it must be awfully hard on her losing her husband like that. Of course, she’s probably going to make out fine financially and all.”

  “That reminds me,” said Ted. “I bet AP’s got a file obit up for Ed Franklin. Want to check that for me, Lucy? Give it a local twist, get some quotes from the town’s movers and shaker

  “Roger Wilco,” said Lucy, relieved to be given a simple, undemanding assignment. And besides, she was interested in learning more about Ed Franklin’s past. The past, she knew, often held the key to understanding the present and the obit did yield some surprising information.

  It began with the usual summary of Ed Franklin’s achievements—graduated from Dartmouth where he played football, went on to Harvard where he earned an MBA, began climbing the corporate ladder, ending as CEO of Dynamo where his high-profile leadership style made him a household name. It was Franklin’s family history that caught her interest. His grandfather was a German immigrant, Emil Franck, who ran a beer hall on the Lower East Side of New York City. The beer hall was successful and he soon ventured into real estate, buying up tenements and renting them to Jewish and Italian newcomers in the early 1900s. His son, Ed’s father, was thus armed with a sizeable fortune and an ambitious wife who wanted to join the highest ranks of New York society, which necessitated obscuring his immigrant origins. He changed the family name from Franck to the more American-sounding Franklin, and his wife was soon invited to join the boards of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the New York Historical Society.

  Lucy chuckled as she read this, wondering if Rachel would say Ed Franklin’s hatred of Mexican immigrants was an effort to compensate for his family’s immigrant past, which he somehow found embarrassing or shameful. It struck her as ironic that the man whose family fortune was originally built by exploiting newcomers to the country would become a proponent of anti-immigration policies. But maybe, she decided with a sigh, he only wanted to prohibit immigrants from Mexico and Latin America. Perhaps he would find Europeans more acceptable.

  When it came to getting quotes from locals she decided to start with the folks he worked most closely with, his fellow members of the board of health. She was only able to reach one, Audrey Sprinkle, and had to leave messages with all the others, which she doubted would ever be returned.

  Audrey was hesitant to say anything about Ed, perhaps fearing he would reach out from the grave in retaliation. “I don’t really know what to say except this is the most awful thing that’s ever happened here in Tinker’s Cove. My heart just goes out to his whole family, and that includes his first wife, Eudora. That poor woman has lost her daughter, too, you know.”

  “I understand,” said Lucy in her most sympathetic voice, “but what was it like to work with him on the board of health?” She was dying to ask Audrey if she agreed with Ed’s anti-Mexican sentiments as her son Jason certainly did, but resisted the temptation, opting to stay in safer territory. “What was his leadership style?”

  “Ah, well, I guess you could say he was a strong leader,” said Audrey. “But he always had the best interest of the town in mind.”

  “I see,” said Lucy. “Any examples?”

  “Sorry, Lucy, I’ve got to run,” said Audrey, ducking for cover. “There’s someone at the door.”

  Moving right along to the board of selectmen, Lucy called the chairman, Roger Wilcox.

  “A fine example of public-spirited service,” he said. “Ed Franklin donated untold hours to the town, giving us the benefit of his unparalleled business knowledge and abilities.”

  “But weren’t some of his actions rather controversial?” asked Lucy.

  “Dear me,” said Roger, “my wife wants me to walk the dog. Says it can’t wait.”

&
nbsp; Joe Marzetti was always a safe bet for a quotable quote, but he didn’t have much to say about Ed Franklin either when she reached him at his supermarket. “Helluva businessman, I got a lot out of that book he wrote—Never Let ’Em See You Sweat: How to Win in Business and Life.”

  “Did he apply here in Tinker’s Cove any of the concepts he wrote about in the book?” asked Lucy.

  “Aw, gee. I gotta problem with one of the checkouts. Gotta go.”

  Lucy plugged away, working down the entire list of town officials, but nobody seemed to have much to say about Ed Franklin. She knew Ted wouldn’t be pleased with the story, but she filed it just before leaving for the day, hoping to put off the inevitable rewrite.

  * * *

  When Lucy arrived on Tuesday morning, as she’d expected, Ted wanted more. “I know the guy’s dead, but this story needs some livening up. It doesn’t give the reader any idea of who Ed Franklin really was.” He leaned back in his chair, chewing his lip. “What about his family? You haven’t tried them.”

  “Oh, Ted,” she protested. “They’ve got enough to deal with. I don’t want to bother them. Phyllis was right. His wife’s pregnant and her husband was shot . . .”

  “She’ll probably welcome the opportunity to talk about her late husband. She’ll probably want everyone to know how wonderful he was.” He paused, smirking. “Lord knows, nobody else seems to have liked him.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy, hoping the phone at the Franklin mansion was unlisted. Unfortunately for her, the automated 4-1-1 operator offered her the option of placing the call.

  A woman answered the phone, and Lucy assumed she was a maid or some other employee, and after identifying herself asked to speak to Mrs. Franklin.

  “Oh, poor Mireille. She’s taking a nap,” said the woman. “I’m her mom. Everybody calls me Mimsy. Maybe I can help you?”

  Whoa, calm down, Lucy told herself, feeling as if she’d hit the mother lode. “Well, first of all, let me say how very sorry I am about your son-in-law’s tragic death. I’m working on an obituary for the local paper and I just wanted to give family members an opportunity to say how they’d like him to be remembered.”

  “Ed was a great guy,” said Mimsy. “He was crazy about my Mireille, and you know, a big famous guy like him, not to mention rich. Well he didn’t need to, but, you know, he actually came to our house and asked my husband, Mireille’s father, you know, for her hand in marriage! Isn’t that the sweetest thing you ever heard? And it was especially nice since poor Sam was on his death bed. He had cancer and didn’t live to walk little Mireille down the aisle.”

  Personally, Lucy thought it was probably a bit of a con, even going so far as to take advantage of a dying man, but she wasn’t about to say so. “That is amazing,” she said, doing her best to sound sincere. “Like he was just a regular guy.”

  “Trust me, Ed Franklin was really a regular guy. You’d never know he was a big shot. And good to our little girl! You shoulda seen the diamond ring he gave her. It’s too bad she can’t wear it now. Her fingers are awfully swollen. She’s got it put away in a safe-deposit box. It’s too valuable to keep around the house. That’s what I told her. Better safe than sorry. After all, I told her, it may be the only thing she gets to keep, after that first wife of his gets through with her. She’s already contesting the will, you know.”

  “Is she really? What a nerve!” replied Lucy, finding it only too easy to join this gossip fest.

  “The way he left things, everything was to go to his children—poor Alison and the one Mireille’s expecting. In the case of only one child surviving, that child would scoop the loot. No children, then it’s a crap shoot. The executors have to distribute the estate equably, whatever that means.”

  “But what about the older son, Taggart?”

  “Taggart wasn’t actually his child. Ed adopted him when he married Eudora. Tag was from Eudora’s first marriage, and Ed said in the will that he had previously made generous settlements to him.”

  “So Eudora doesn’t think it’s fair that Ed’s wealth all goes to Mireille’s baby?” asked Lucy. “That she and Tag don’t get anything?”

  “You said it! She seems all fragile and sensitive and artistic but believe me, that woman is really a crazy bitch. The things she’s said to my Mireille! Vicious, nasty stuff. I’m not kidding. A mind like that, she really oughta be committed. Scary stuff.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I do say! And here she’s gone and decided to drag Mireille into court and poor Ed’s hardly cold. He’s only been dead for three days. The papers were delivered to her this morning.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Lucy, well aware she could never use this material in a news story without inviting a libel uit, and she already knew that Eudora wasn’t averse to legal challenges. “What about the funeral? Do you know what’s being planned?”

  “Haven’t got a clue. Poor Mireille, she got up her courage and called Eudora thinking it was only proper to include her in the planning. And you know, what? Eudora told her not to bother, that Ed’s lawyer was taking care of the details. Can you imagine? That’s what these folks are like. It’s all about the money. They don’t care if he gets a decent funeral or not.” Mimsy paused. “I guess you could give Munn a call. That’s Howard Munn. He’s Ed’s lawyer. He’s got an office in Boston.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy, wishing every interviewee was as forthcoming as Mimsy. “Please let Mireille know how sorry I am for her loss, and if there’s anything she wants to add, she can reach me here at the paper.”

  “Will do. It’s been real nice talking to you, Lucy.”

  Lucy shook her head after hanging up, thinking that things just kept getting stranger and stranger as suspects kept popping out of the woodwork. Matt Rodriguez was the prime suspect, of course, named by a witness. Then there was Ruth, a self-declared and extremely unlikely suspect, but there was the troubling matter of the Glock. Who knew what other weapons she might be hiding under all those hand-crocheted afghans? And now it turned out that Mireille had a very strong motive for killing her much older husband, since her baby would inherit his entire fortune. As the mother of this tiny billionaire, she would certainly have access to the estate and might actually control it. Come to think of it, thought Lucy, Mireille might also have figured out a way to kill Alison, clearing the way for her baby to inherit every last penny. And then there was Mimsy herself. It wouldn’t be the first time that a coldhearted killer used charm and an apparent willingness to help to distract investigators. It was certainly something to think about, Lucy decided as she googled Howard Munn.

  Chapter Eleven

  The lawyer’s number was easily obtained and Lucy got right on the phone to his Boston office where, much to her surprise, the man himself answered the phone. Caught off guard, she blurted out her thoughts.

  “I didn’t actually expect to get through to you,” she confessed before identifying herself. “Sorry, I’m Lucy Stone from the Tinker’s Cove Pennysaver newspaper.”

  Munn chuckled. “Well, I’ve got a small office, just me and a couple associates. We find that it’s best to keep things simple and direct, and our clients seem to appreciate our approach. I detest those recorded messages and why should I have a girl to answer the phone when I can do it myself?”

  “Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more. Believe me, I spend a lot of time trying to negotiate phone systems that I suspect are designed to make callers give up in frustration. They say every call is important to them but they sure don’t act like it.”

  Munn seemed to appreciate that and gave a little laugh.

  “I won’t take up much time,” said Lucy, addressing the reason for her call. “I just need the details for Ed Franklin’s funeral for his obituary.”

  “Of course. The service is at eleven o’clock Saturday at Trinity Church in Boston, followed by a reception at the Copley Plaza Hotel. Unfortunately for your readers, it’s by invitation only.”

  “Of course. He was a very
important person and I suppose a lot of other very important people will be attending.”

  “Yes,” said Munn. “We know there’s a lot of interest, however, and I do have a limited number of press passes. Shall I reserve one for you?”

  Lucy was floored. In her years as a part-time reporter for a small town weekly she knew only too well that she was at the bottom of the media food chain. “That would be great. Thank you.”

  “No problem. I know how much Ed loved Tinker’s Cove and how active he was in local affairs. He’d want to include his neighbors, but given the situation it’s not practical to invite the whole town.”

  Lucy found this reaction encouraging and decided to press for more information. “I’ve been told that Ed Franklin’s first wife is challenging his will. Is that true?”

  There was a pause before Munn answered. “No comment, I’m afraid.”

  Now it was Lucy’s turn to chuckle. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I respect people who work hard.”

  “Is there anything you want to say about Ed Franklin for the story? I expect you’ve known him for a good number of years.”

  “I have indeed,” he said in a thoughtful tone, “and I’m shocked and saddened by his death, especially so because it was clearly an assassination. I knew him well, personally and as a client, and I can think of no reason why anyone would want to kill him. This is a real tragedy. Ed’s death is a great loss to many, and most especially to his wife Mireille and his entire family.”

  “Considering the fact that his daughter also died recently in rather suspicious circumstances, do you think there’s a vendetta against the Franklin family?”

  “I fear poor Alison’s death was simply a tragic accident and unrelated to her father’s murder.” He paused. “I will overnight that press pass to you. You should have it in the morning.”

  Lucy knew the call was over and there was no point trying to prolong it. “Thank you. I really appreciate this opportunity.”