“Any idea who she is?” asked Lucy.
“It’s Alison, Alison Franklin,” said one of the crew members, a young guy with longish hair. “I’ve seen her around.”
“Is she related to Ed Franklin?” asked Carstairs.
Lucy knew Ed Franklin was an extremely wealthy new arrival in town, a retired CEO who had quickly become a force to be reckoned with. She’d covered numerous meetings and hearings where he’d tussled with local officials to gain approval for the oversized mansion he built on Shore Road. Once settled into the mansion, he quickly offered himself as a candidate for the board of health, promising to cut red tape and bureaucratic obstruction. Much to the surprise of the entrenched office holders, who took his candidacy to be a joke, he won by a landslide.
“Yeah,” said the long-haired guy. “She’s his daughter.”
Somehow the realization that this young woman was not only beautiful but also a child of privilege made her death seem even worse.
“Wow,” said Carstairs with a big sigh. “What a shame.”
“Senseless,” said another. “So much to live for.”
“I see it all the time,” said the EMT, shaking her head. “I’ll bet she was high as a kite on heroin or oxy.”
“It looks to me like she was out for a run,” said Lucy.
“That’s probably what her folks thought, too. But there’s a shack not far from here that’s a popular spot for drug users.” The EMT gave a wry smile. “I’d be willing to bet on it. This girl was using. Why else would she go out on thin ice? Nobody in their right mind would do such a stupid thing.”
A tug on the leash from Libby reminded Lucy that she had other responsibilities and it was time to be on her way. Ted was waiting for her story, but that wasn’t her first priority, not according to Libby. Libby wanted her breakfast.
CHAPTER 2
“Amonstrosity.”
“Absolutely appalling lack of taste.”
“Ridiculously ostentatious.”
As a freshly showered and dressed Lucy drove along Shore Road, passing the Franklin house on her way to work, she recalled the reactions of some planning board members when they were presented with the plans. Ed Franklin hadn’t gone before the board himself. He’d sent his architect and lawyer to seek the necessary approvals. And they’d succeeded because the plans had been cleverly designed to take maximum advantage of the town’s zoning laws.
The structure was enormous, much larger than the other mansions on Shore Road, but at 14,999 square feet, it was actually one square foot less than the town’s maximum of 15,000 square feet. It’s true that the roof was topped with an inordinately large widow’s walk, but those were allowed, and the house itself was only three stories high and just shy (by an inch) of the maximum height restriction. And while the roomy flagstone terrace seemed to extend forever, it actually stopped ten feet and one inch from the property line, more than meeting the required ten-foot setback.
Lucy had covered the meeting and had quoted the architect, who had announced in a rather challenging tone, “We have not exceeded any of the local restrictions and have been mindful of traditional New England architecture.”
She also remembered quite well the various reactions of the board members, who had no choice but to grant approval to the plans. Maisie Wilkinson had looked as if she had bitten into a lemon when she cast her vote, Horace Atkins had huffed and puffed for all the world like an outraged walrus, and Linc Curtis had glared at the applicants as if he could make them disappear by staring angrily at them. Committee chairman Susan Brooks had abstained, claiming a conflict of interest that Lucy suspected was little more than an excuse to avoid going on record as supporting the project. Only realtor Wilt Chambers had spoken in favor of the plan, saying it would increase the tax base and raise property values.
As she drove by the house, Lucy thought it could have been worse. It could have been a modernistic glass box, for instance, or a faux Tuscan villa with a red tile roof, rather than the overblown Federalist-style mansion that now dominated the neighborhood. And even though it was huge, everything was in proportion, with oversized windows and chimneys, and a dramatic carved pediment calling attention to the massive front door which was made from some rare Brazilian hardwood. Lucy had heard that when seen from a distance—it could quite easily be observed from a boat bobbing on the sea it overlooked—the house seemed quite in scale with its surroundings.
But no house, no matter how grand, could protect its inhabitants from the vagaries of fortune or shelter them from tragedy and grief. In fact, it seemed to her that wealth and success could almost tempt fate. She thought of John Kennedy, Jr., becoming disoriented and crashing his plane into the Atlantic, and Gloria Vanderbilt, who saw her son hurl himself from a fourteenth floor terrace, and now Ed Franklin, who had certainly not awakened this morning expecting to learn that he’d lost his beautiful daughter forever.
Lucy was uncharacteristically somber when she got to the office, prompting Ted to comment on her glum expression.
“Pretty rough morning?” he asked in a sympathetic tone. Ted was the owner, publisher, editor, and chief reporter for the weekly paper.
“Who was it?” asked Phyllis, chewing on the earpiece of the jazzy reading glasses that either hung from a chain to rest on her ample bosom or perched on her nose. Phyllis’s official title was receptionist, but she also handled ads, classifieds, and event listings.
“Alison Franklin,” said Lucy, hanging up her barn coat on the coat rack.
“Ed Franklin’s daughter?” asked Ted.
“That’s what they say. I don’t know much about Ed Franklin apart from the permitting process for his big house.”
“That was quite a show, wasn’t it?” said Ted, who had relished the controversy that prompted so many heated letters to the editor.
“She hasn’t been
