Lucy was passing the town common when she noticed that the chamber of commerce’s huge cornucopia had been erected in the bandstand and decided to snap a photo for the Pennysaver. Volunteers had built the horn of plenty, which was constructed of painted canvas stretched over a wood frame, and the chamber set it up every year to collect the canned foods that were the entry fee for the Turkey Trot race. A photo of the empty cornucopia would remind everyone to bring donations, whether or not they were competing in the 5K.
She parked alongside the green where the grass was now brown and grabbed her camera, noticing that the cornucopia had already drawn a couple passersby. Drawing closer, she recognized the two women who were studying the display as Mireille Franklin and her mother, Mimsy.
“Do you mind if I take a photo of you two admiring the cornucopia?” Lucy asked, raising her camera.
“Maybe not,” said Mimsy, grabbing her daughter’s hand in a protective gesture. “Mireille needs to keep a low profile.”
“Don’t be silly, Mom,” said Mireille. “A couple figures will make the photo more interesting.”
“I can take you from behind and I wouldn’t have to identify you,” offered Lucy.
“Okay,” agreed Mimsy somewhat reluctantly.
“I was going to suggest that, in any case,” said Mireille. “I’d rather not be photographed with this huge belly.”
“I thought you’d be a mom by now,” said Lucy, smiling.
“Me, too,” said Mireille, stroking her baby bump. “This little one is in no hurry to come into the world, and I can’t say I blame him.”
“Or her,” added Mimsy, holding up her hand with two fingers crossed.
“Are you still planning to leave Tinker’s Cove after the baby’s born?” asked Lucy.
Mimsy answered, her assertive tone leaving no doubt about the matter. “Absolutely. Mireille needs to get away. The sooner she gets that house on the market, the better.”
“You haven’t done that yet?” asked Lucy.
“I know I should,” said Mireille with a sigh, “but I’m not ready to leave Ed and Alison. I know it’s weird, but I like visiting their graves . . .”
“It’s morbid. That’s what it is,” snapped Mimsy. “And you shouldn’t go alone to that cemetery.”
“No, it’s not morbid. I like being with them, just me and them, remembering them as they were when they were alive.” Mireille paused, smiling. “Sometimes when I go there I think I hear them talking to me. They don’t seem sad. Ed’s mad that he isn’t around to manage everything. He’s not convinced that I can get along without him. Alison is more at peace. She says she’s watching over me and the baby.”
Mimsy didn’t like hearing this one bit. “Come on, Mireille. You must be tired. You need to go home and get some rest.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” said Mireille, protesting.
“That’s what you think, but it’s not true,” countered Mimsy. “You’re not yourself and you’re not behaving sensibly.” She took her daughter by the arm, then turned to face Lucy. “Do you know what she did? She fired the bodyguards. All of them. Says she doesn’t need them. Now does that sound like a sensible thing to do?”
Put on the spot, Lucy didn’t know how to respond. “I really don’t know.”
“I didn’t like having strangers in the house,” said Mireille with a wan smile.
“Well, they were there to protect you and your baby,” said Mimsy. “And if you end up dead like Ed and Alison, I’m not going to be visiting your grave so you can just hold your peace. Don’t try talking to me, because I won’t be there to listen!”
“Point taken, Mom,” replied Mireille, allowing Mimsy to lead her away across the dead brown lawn to their car.
Lucy decided to jog the short distance to the Pennysaver office, chiding herself for not taking her Turkey Trot training regimen more seriously. She had lots of excuses, she told herself, but she definitely needed to make her morning runs a priority. Time was running out with only a few days until the race.
When she got to the office, Phyllis was bursting with news. “Lucy!” she exclaimed, “You’ll never guess what’s happened.”
“Martians landed?”
“No! Jason Sprinkle and Link Peterson have been arrested for torching the pub.”
“That was quick,” Lucy said, glancing at Ted.
“Those two are not the brightest bulbs in the pack,” he said. “At first they claimed they were out of town, but the cops have witnesses who saw them at the harbor just before the explosion. There’s even video from the harbormaster’s shed of them leaving the parking lot moments before the explosion. The chief told me they’re saying they didn’t notice the blaze, and that’s why they didn’t call for help. Little bastards insist it was Hank DeVries who did it.”
“There’s no way he could’ve done it. I took him to rehab in New Hampshire on Saturday,” said Lucy.
“Next thing they’ll be saying Santa Claus did it,” said Phyllis.
When Lucy called Bill to give him the news, he wasn’t convinced that Link and Jason were the arsonists. “They’re not bad kids. I can’t believe they did it. They knew I was in the building. I spoke to them in the parking lot. They asked me what I was doing working for those Mexicans and I told them I’d probably be needing help and asked if they’d be interested in some work. I figured even they could do demo.”
“Looks like they did it for free,” said Lucy.
Bill chuckled. “I don’t think so. They seemed pretty interested in the fifteen dollars an hour I offered to pay them.”
“Who else was down there?” asked Lucy. “Did you see anyone?”
“Yeah. Lots of people. It was Saturday afternoon
