by Leslie Meier
“Those are so adorable!” shrieked the woman in a voice that was much too loud.
Lucy turned to acknowledge her and recognized Eudora Clare, smartly dressed in a short fur jacket and carrying a huge Louis Vuitton bag that contained a tiny Yorkshire terrier. All that was visible of the dog was a little face with bright eyes, and a plastic pumpkin barrette attached between its ears.
“They certainly are,” said Lucy. “I only wish I had a little grandbaby so I could buy one.”
“Don’t you know anyone who’s expecting?” asked Eudora, examining one of the little garments with an expensively gloved hand. “I do.” She laid the onesie over one arm and stroked it as if it was a pet cat, “but I don’t know if she’s expecting a hen or a tom.”
“In that case, I’d go with the hen and chicks. They’re cuter,” said Lucy, who had noticed that while Eudora’s face was smooth as a baby’s bottom, evidence of a face lift, her wrinkled neck boasted wattles that a turkey would be proud of.
“I really shouldn’t get her anything,” said Eudora, stroking the onesie so hard that Lucy feared she would rub the design right off. “The mother, I mean. Face it, these presents are really for the mother and this one is nothing but a husband-stealing slut.”
Lucy realized Eudora must be talking about Mireille, and was surprised she’d consider buying a gift for the woman she believed had broken up her marriage. Some of the allegations from the lawsuit ran through Lucy’s mind and she couldn’t believe Eudora was ready to forgive and forget.
“Of course,” continued Eudora, spitting out the words, “it’s not the baby’s fault that her mother is a conniving little gold digger, and now that Ed and Allie are gone, the baby will be my only link to Ed.” She turned and stared at Lucy with tear-filled eyes. “Isn’t that right?”
Lucy felt uncomfortable being put on the spot and wondered if Eudora was somewhat unstable, perhaps even on some sort of medication. “I suppose you have photos and videos and memories . . .”
“It’s not the same as a living person,” said Eudora, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue in such a way that she wouldn’t smear her heavy eye makeup. “That baby will have Ed’s DNA. It might even be a boy and look like him.”
“You have a son,” said Lucy.
“Oh, Tag’s not Ed’s,” Eudora said, crumpling the tissue in her hand. “I had him with my first husband. Ed adopted him, but he’s nothing like my Ed.”
“It’s hard to let go of the past,” said Lucy, “but you have to think of the family you do have, your son and husband.”
“But don’t you think I have a responsibility to this little mite? It’s quite likely that a slut like you-know-who will be an unfit mother. What would happen then? Imagine, my Ed’s child in foster care, abused and neglected.” Eudora pressed her botoxed, glossy orange lips together. “It would be up to me. I would have to adopt the child. I would name him after Ed . . . Edward, Junior . . . or Edwina, if it’s a girl.”
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself,” said Lucy, eager to get away from Eudora but somewhat concerned about her welfare. She was no psychologist, but this seemed extremely abnormal.
Fortunately, just as Lucy was looking around, hoping Eudora’d been accompanied by her husband or son, Jon Clare appeared, carrying a bulging shopping bag with the O’Brien’s Turkey Farm logo.
“You mustn’t chew this poor woman’s ear off,” he said, attempting to take Eudora’s hand. “I’ve got the turkey—it’s a beauty—and we can go home now.”
“I’m not a child,” hissed Eudora, yanking her hand away and stuffing the onesie into the Louis Vuitton bag, causing the dog to yip in protest. “Don’t treat me like a child.”
“Have a nice day,” said Lucy, seizing the opportunity to make her escape. She crossed the store to the counter and placed her order, then watched as the squabbling couple made their way out of the store to a large Cadillac Escalade. As she watched Jon holding the bag with the shoplifted onesie while Eudora settled herself in the car, Lucy wondered if she should report the theft.
“This is a nice twenty-two pounder,” said Carolyn O’Brien, grunting as she hoisted the heavy bird onto the counter and slid it into a reusable cloth shopping bag. “That’ll be thirty-nine thirty-eight. The bag’s complimentary.”
Lucy couldn’t believe that was right; she was used to buying Thanksgiving turkeys at the IGA for fifty-nine cents a pound. But when she checked the sign behind the counter, she saw that O’Brien’s hormone-free, free-range turkeys were a dollar seventy-nine a pound. “Do you take checks?” she asked, deciding that O’Brien’s Turkey Farm could certainly absorb the loss of the onesie.
* * *
Lucy was late for breakfast with the girls, having detoured to drop off the turkey at the food pantry. They were already seated at their usual table in Jake’s when she arrived. Norine, the waitress, came and filled the mug that was waiting at Lucy’s place while she seated herself and shrugged out of her jacket.
“Interesting choice of color, Lucy,” said Sue, studying her new sweater. “I know orange was very big last year, but I think it’s a tricky color for most people, and if you’re going to go with orange I wouldn’t combine it with blue. Brown or beige, maybe, even a creamy white, and, sweetheart, while I certainly appreciate the fact that you’re wearing lipstick, nude would have been much better than that oh-so-sweet pink.”
“It’s my favorite lipstick and it’s the only one I wear,” said Lucy, who was used to Sue’s critical comments and wasn’t bothered in the least. Sue, she noticed, was immaculately turned out in a nubby white sweater and white wool slacks. “It’s called Gentlemen Prefer Pink . . . and I got the sweater on sale.”
“Cute name,” said Rachel. “I think orange and pink together is very Lilly Pulitzer.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Lucy, who didn’t have a clue what or who Lilly Pulitzer was and wouldn’t have recognized the company’s colorful resort-wear designs.
“That sweater’s the perfect color for this time of year,” said Pam. “It’s really more of a rust than orange, and they’ve done research that indicates warm colors like reds and oranges actually make you feel warmer and happier and thus more open to positive interactions with others.”
“I had a very interesting interaction this morning,” said Lucy, pausing to let Norine take their orders.
“Usual all round?” she asked, pen poised over her pad. Receiving nods she ambled off toward the kitchen, writing as she went.
“Who did you interact with in an interesting way?” asked Sue, who was running a perfectly manicured finger around the rim of her coffee mug.
“Eudora Clare,” said Lucy, lifting her mug for that delicious first sip of coffee.
“Ed Franklin’s first wife?” asked Rachel with a puzzled expression.
“The very same,” said Lucy, setting her cup down. “It was at the turkey farm. She was acting kind of weird, talking about buying a Baby’s First Thanksgiving onesie for Mireille’s baby.”
“Those onesies are really tacky,” said Sue.
“I think they’re cute,” said Pam.
“In what way was she acting weird?” asked Rachel.
“She seemed kind of out of control, barely holding it together,” said Lucy. “Her husband intervened and dragged her out of the store. She ended up shoplifting the onesie, but I don’t think she meant to. She was pretty upset.”
“Well, that’s understandable. She must be grieving for her daughter and her ex-husband. I know they were divorced, but it’s still traumatic when someone close to you is murdered,” said Pam.
“Pam’s right,” said Rachel as Norine arrived with their breakfast orders. “She could be suffering from post-traumatic stress.”
Norine plunked down a bowl of yogurt with granola for Pam, a sunshine muffin for Rachel, and hash and eggs for Lucy, then glared at Sue. “Anything I can get you?” she asked in a challenging tone.
“Just top off my coffee, thanks,” said Sue, who, as f
ar as anyone knew, existed on a diet of black coffee and white wine.
Norine went off to fetch the coffee pot, tut-tutting and shaking her head in disapproval.
“Just think about it,” said Rachel. “Her husband left her for a younger woman then he divorced her, which research shows is every bit as stressful as a death. Then her daughter dies—that’s a second stressor—her ex-husband is murdered, and to top it all off, the new, young wife is very visibly pregnant. That’s a lot for anyone to deal with.”
“I can’t work up too much sympathy,” said Sue, giving Norine a big thank-you smile as she added more coffee to her mug. “She’s remarried, after all, and her son and the new husband seem very devoted to her, plus she’s got plenty of dough. That’s one thing she doesn’t have to worry about.”
“I guess she is worried, though,” said Lucy, piercing the yolk of her sunny-side up egg with her fork. “She’s contesting Ed’s will, which leaves everything to the new baby.”
“Going to court. That’s another stressor,” said Rachel, peeling the paper off her muffin.
“Well, I’ll say this,” said Lucy. “After seeing how she acted in the turkey store, I can understand why Alison went to live with her father and Mireille.”
“That would be hard for a mother to take,” said Pam. “It would be a real slap in the face.”
“No rush. Any time you’re ready,” said Norine, tucking the bill between the salt and pepper shakers.
Sue picked it up and her eyebrows rose. “Talk about a slap in the face. Jake’s raised the price of a cup of coffee.”
Chapter Thirteen
When Lucy stopped by at the office to pick up her check, Ted was doing a little jig.
“What’s gotten into him?” she asked Phyllis, who was resplendent in a sweatshirt featuring a bejeweled Tom turkey in full display, his chest and neck covered with sequins and his tail dotted with faux diamonds, emeralds, and rubies.
“It’s your story about the lawsuit,” she said, peering over the granny glasses perched on her nose. “He says AP and Gateway are picking it up and paying for the privilege.”
“That’s right, Lucy,” he said, giving her a huge smile. “You got us a gen-you-wine scoop!”
“How about a little bonus for me?” she suggested, giving him a sideways look as she opened the envelope that was lying on her desk and noticed the usual paltry sum.
“How about I pay the heat bill?” he replied. “I suppose you’d rather work in a warm office—”
“Actually, it’s not all that warm,” said Phyllis, interrupting and rubbing her upper arms. “Barely above freezing.”
“Well, with adequate heat and electric lights and computers and all—” said Ted.
“Point taken,” admitted Lucy, slipping into her chair and powering up her computer. While she waited she noticed the light on her phone indicating she had a voice mail and dialed the code. Much to her surprise, Mireille Franklin had called and left a message, requesting an interview. Lucy immediately returned the call and was invited to “come right over.”
“Why do I feel like I slipped into an alternate universe?” she asked after telling Ted and Phyllis about the invitation.
“Well, it isn’t often that Ted is actually in a good mood,” said Phyllis. “That alone is rather disconcerting.”
“It’s her sweatshirt that’s disconcerting,” said Ted, chuckling at his little joke. “You need sunglasses to look at it.”
“I got it at the Harvest Festival. It’s handcrafted,” said Phyllis, smoothing the sequins. “I think what’s disconcerting Lucy is the fact that somebody actually called requesting an interview. I don’t think that’s ever happened before.”
“Well, that guy who puts on magic shows in the summer always calls,” said Lucy.
“The Amazing Mr. Magic,” said Phyllis with a disapproving snort. “He just wants free publicity.”
“Not quite in the same league as Mireille Franklin,” said Ted
“I bet she wants the same thing,” said Lucy, “only in her case it’s called positive spin.”
* * *
Whatever her motive, Mireille greeted Lucy at the door to the mansion, brushing aside the burly fellow dressed all in black—black shirt, black tie, black suit and shoes—who had opened the door. He had a rather obvious lump under his jacket that Lucy supposed was made by a gun.
“It’s okay, Jack. I’m expecting company,” said Mireille, grabbing Lucy by the arm and pulling her inside.
Jack looked Lucy up and down, frisking her visually, then asked for her bag so he could also check it. Finding no threat there, either, he handed it back to her. He turned to Mireille and said in a very serious tone, “I’ll be right here in the hallway if you need me.”
“Good to know,” replied Mireille, who pressed one hand on her lower back and with a bit of a waddle, led the way to a small library at the rear of the house. The shelves were largely empty, apart from a handful of best-selling thrillers and business books, but there was a huge, wall-mounted TV above the gas fireplace. A comfortable sofa and arm chairs that swiveled were arranged around a large coffee table covered with a messy pile of magazines and newspapers. Both the gas fireplace and TV were on.
Mireille had been watching an old black and white Cary Grant movie, which she quickly turned off.
“It’s pure escapism. I watch these old romantic movies. I love Bringing Up Baby, The Philadelphia Story, stuff like that.”
“Me, too,” said Lucy, who was waiting for an invitation to sit down. She thought Mireille was one of those women who couldn’t help looking beautiful, even if her eyes were rather red and swollen, evidence she’d been crying a lot.
She was small-boned and had a touching air of fragility despite being nine months pregnant. Her tummy was a huge beach ball covered by a tight, stretchy turquoise top, which Lucy knew was the current fashion. Her hair was long and wavy, and the blond color seemed to be natural, though Lucy wouldn’t have bet money on it. She knew from Sue, who was always urging her to “do something” with her fading hair, that hair color products had come a long way in recent years.
Mireille was wearing black leggings and her feet, only slightly swollen, were tucked into black ballet flats.
“Oh, please sit down,” she said, flopping onto the couch and putting her feet up. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Herb tea? Kefir? I drink a lot of that.”
“No thanks. I’m fine,” said Lucy, choosing one of the swivel chairs and noticing that Mireille was nervously twisting her fingers.
“It’s no trouble. I can just ring and someone will bring it,” said Mireille, sounding as if this was a phenomenon she had not yet grown accustomed to.
“If you want something, go ahead,” said Lucy. “I’m training for the Turkey Trot—”
She stopped suddenly, embarrassed. She should never have mentioned the Turkey Trot, which Alison had also been training for.
“It’s okay,” said Mireille in a voice that was almost a whisper. “I know Alison was looking forward to running in the Turkey Trot. It was one of the positives in her life.” She paused. “I’d run, too, if it wasn’t for this,” she said, patting her tummy.
“When are you due?” asked Lucy, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Spying her cell phone, and not wanting any interruptions during the interview, she turned it off.
“Any day,” replied Mireille with a sigh.
“Well, thanks for the interview. I know our readers will be interested in what you have to say, and how you’re coping with everything.”
“Not very well, and that’s the truth. The worst part is waking up and realizing this isn’t a bad dream. It’s my life.” She snatched up a tabloid from the top of the pile and waved it around. “Anybody reading this rag would think I’m a coldhearted gold digger.”
“Are you?” asked Lucy, taking advantage of the opening. She much preferred interviewing the defensive, angry Mireille than the weepy, grieving one.
“No! I don�
�t care about money or houses or cars. I really don’t. And I didn’t break up Ed’s marriage, either. He’d been wanting a divorce for a long time before we met and he pursued me, not the other way around. All that stuff that Eudora is alleging is absolutely false.”
“How did you meet?” asked Lucy, jotting everything down in her notebook.
“I was working for a caterer, just to pay the bills. I was taking drama classes and going to auditions. I was making progress, starting to get callbacks. He was very persistent. At first I turned him down, but he was hard to resist. He kept calling and sending flowers and he really won me over. After our first date I knew. I knew that even though he was old enough to be my father, he was the man for me. I know he had a reputation for being brash and hard-nosed in business, and some of his ideas weren’t exactly PC, but with me he was nothing but kind and considerate and loving. He never raised his voice to me . . . or to Alison, for that matter. He said he liked having a peaceful, pleasant atmosphere at home.”
“What about Alison?” asked Lucy. “What was it like when she came to live with you?”
“It was great,” said Mireille, looking Lucy right in the eye. “I know what people think, that she must have hated me and the baby, but it wasn’t that way at all. We got on great together. We were like sisters. She was so much fun and so excited about having a baby in the house.” Mireille paused and plucked a tissue from the box on the coffee table, blew her nose, and dabbed at her eyes. “I really miss her and I hate the way she died in that cold, icy water.
“You know what she loved more than anything? Sitting by that fireplace,” Mireille said, pointing at the flickering flames. “I think of her every time I turn it on. She loved to curl up by a nice cozy fire, reading or watching movies with me.”
“It’s a bit unusual, isn’t it, that she moved in with you and her father? Wouldn’t she naturally want to be with her mother?”
“I guess not. She moved in with us right after the wedding. That was about a year ago. She was just out of rehab.”
“What about that?” asked Lucy, recalling the accusation that Mireille had gotten Alison back on drugs. “There are rumors that she was back on drugs and died of an overdose.”