by Leslie Meier
Ted, however, wasn’t impressed when she told him she’d been invited to the funeral. “A funeral’s a funeral, even if it’s in Trinity Church,” he said, swinging around in his swivel chair and facing her. “There’ll be music and people will say a lot of nice things about Ed Franklin that may or may not be true and then they’ll party afterwards, glad it’s over.”
In her corner by the door, Phyllis gave an amused snort.
Lucy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “This is a big deal, Ted. There are going to be a lot of VIPs there, and maybe even his killer.”
“I’m sure the killer will wear a sign or something to identify him or herself. One of those smiley face stick-ons—Hello My Name Is Hit Man.”
Phyllis thought this was hysterical and she was struggling, shoulders shaking, to keep from laughing out loud.
Lucy, however, wasn’t amused. “The funeral’s by invitation only and I bet they haven’t invited any locals. I’d be representing the whole town.” She paused, dredging for something that would convince him. “We really owe it to his wife and the people Ed knew here, all the folks who worked with him on committees.”
“You mean all the folks he fought with,” said Phyllis.
“Well, yeah,” admitted Lucy. “He was involved with a lot of people. He affected a lot of lives here in town.” She could see Ted’s expression softening.
He was definitely considering letting her go.
“I’ll do it on my own time, Ted,” she offered, sweetening the deal. “I won’t even put in for gas.”
“Well, when you put it that way, I suppose we do owe it to our readers,” he said, turning back to his computer. Then, giving a little start, he slapped his hand against his head. “Did I hear you say something about his first wife challenging his will?”
“Yeah, that’s what Mireille’s mom told me.”
“I wonder, do you think she’s been blabbing to everyone who calls, or do you have a scoop? A scoop you’ve been sitting on since yesterday?”
“Well, if she told me, she’s probably told others,” said Lucy, defending herself. “She sounded like quite a character. Very chatty.”
“Yeah, but you know Samantha Eggers,” said Ted, naming the court clerk. “You wrote a flattering story about her, didn’t you, just a few months ago?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it flattering,” said Lucy, feeling the need to defend her journalistic integrity. “It was part of that series we did on the county court.”
“You did kind of suck up to her,” said Phyllis with a knowing nod.
“She was very helpful,” said Lucy, still defensive. “She’s nice. That’s not a crime, you know.”
“Well, get on over there and see if she’s got anything on this so-called lawsuit, okay?”
“Okay, boss,” said Lucy, only too eager to get out of the office . . . and out of town.
Ed Franklin was gone, but somehow the combative attitude he’d brought to Tinker’s Cove was lingering on. Paranoia and discord seemed to be spreading like some sort of infectious disease.
Heading back to Gilead for the second time in two days, Lucy stopped at the Quik-Stop for gas and picked up a hot-dog for a quick lunch she could eat while she drove. It seemed to her that she was plying the same route to Gilead, the county seat, quite a lot. Fortunately, the trip was quite scenic, taking her past lovely old homes and giving her peeks at numerous coves and inlets dotted with pine-covered islands. As she drove and ate her hot dog, she thought about how Maine was changing.
When she’d first moved to Tinker’s Cove, lots of people sold homemade items like quilts and whirligigs, setting them out on their lawns for tourists to buy. Now, most of those displays were gone, replaced with neat signs advertising art galleries, acupuncture, and computer services. The region, indeed the whole country was experiencing a changing economy, and those who didn’t have college educations were joining Harry Crawford’s group of Left Behinds.
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 1960s 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 moth
er. 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 which 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 H OUSES. 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 Twelve
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.