“Well, write up what you’ve got,” ordered Ted. “We’ll say ‘tentatively identified as’.”
“Okay,” said Lucy with a sigh, sitting down at her desk and booting up her PC.
It was an old machine and slow to wake up in the morning, so while she waited she mulled over possible leads for the story. Her eyes roamed around the familiar office, where an old Regulator clock hung on the wall above Ted’s rolltop desk, which he’d inherited from his grandfather, a legendary small-town journalist. Wooden blinds rattled at the window and a little bell on the door jingled whenever anyone came in. Entering the office was like taking a step back in time, she thought, wishing for a moment that such a thing was really possible. If only the clocks and calendars could roll backwards to yesterday, then Alison would still be alive.
Lucy’s computer announced with a whirr that it was up and running and she got to work.
* * *
When the paper came out on Thursday the story was front page news, but of course everyone in Tinker’s Cove had already heard about Alison Franklin’s fatal mishap. News, especially bad news, traveled fast in town, and the tragedy was the main topic of conversation in Jake’s Donut Shack when Lucy arrived for her weekly breakfast date with her friends.
“Such a shame, a young girl like that with her whole life before her,” declared Norine, the waitress, greeting Lucy when she entered the busy little café. “Your friends are already here,” she added with a nod toward the table in the back where the group regularly gathered.
The four women had begun the weekly breakfast meetings as a way of keeping in touch when their children had grown and they no longer ran into each other at Little League games, bake sales, and PTA meetings.
“So young and so very rich, too,” offered Sue Finch. With a perfectly manicured hand, she tucked a glossy lock of hair behind one ear. “Her father is enormously wealthy. Fortune Five Hundred wealthy.”
“Money doesn’t guarantee happiness,” said Lucy, slipping into the vacant seat and greeting her friends with a smile.
“That’s so true,” said Pam Stillings, speaking from experience. She was married to Lucy’s boss, Ted, and had wholeheartedly supported her husband’s struggle to continue publishing the Pennysaver despite competition from the Internet, dwindling advertising revenues, and ever-increasing production costs. “Good health, family, friends—those are the things that really matter.”
“Pam’s right,” said Rachel Goodman, who was married to Bob Goodman, a lawyer with a busy practice in town. “Simply possessing money doesn’t guarantee happiness. In fact, it can cause lots of problems—guilt, lack of responsibility, family disruption.” She had majored in psychology and had never gotten over it.
“I certainly wouldn’t want to swap places with Alison’s parents, not even if they had all the money in the world,” said Lucy, glancing up as Norine approached with her order pad in hand. “But there’s a big difference between having enough money and not having it.” Her tongue went to the new crown she’d recently had to get when a tooth broke, spending the money she’d been saving to buy a new family room sofa.
“Okay, ladies. The usual for everyone?” asked Norine with a raised eyebrow. “Sunshine muffin for Rachel, granola yogurt for Pam, hash and eggs for Lucy, and”—she paused for a disapproving little snort—“black coffee for Sue.”
Receiving nods all round, she retreated to place the order and returned moments later with a fresh pot of coffee. “You know,” she said, filling Lucy’s mug, “I’ve heard people saying that girl committed suicide. She must’ve wanted to die to go out on that thin ice.”
Lucy shook her head, unwilling to entertain such an idea. “I don’t think so. I hope not,” she said, wrapping her hands around the warm mug. “That would be too sad.”
“Depression is an insidious disease,” said Rachel, adding a dab of cream to her freshly filled mug. “And so often it goes unrecognized and untreated.”
“It was most likely an accident,” said Pam, stirring some sugar into her coffee. “The ice might’ve looked much stronger than it actually was. People get fooled. We have an accident like this every winter. Remember last year, when Lydia Volpe had a close call? Her dog fell through and she tried to save the beast. Luckily for her, Eddie Culpepper saw them struggling and managed to get them out.”
“That was the first thing I thought of, but there was no sign of a dog or anything like that,” said Lucy as Norine arrived again and began distributing their orders.
“That’s why folks are saying it must’ve been suicide,” insisted Norine, putting down Lucy’s plate with a thump that made the toast jump. “Or maybe she was high on something and thought she could walk on water.”
“It looked to me like she was out for a run. She was dressed for a run,” said Lucy, who was staring at the pair of sunny-side-up eggs sitting on top of a mound of hash and thinking she really didn’t want eggs this morning. Truth was, she hadn’t really had much appetite at all since she’d discovered Alison’s body.
“I guess we’ll never know,” said Norine, tenting the little bill and setting it on the table.
“It comes at a bad time for Ed Franklin,” said Sue. “His new wife is expecting a baby. Due any day from the looks of her.”
“His wife’s pregnant?” asked Lucy, doing some quick math. “If Alison was twenty, isn’t it rather late to be adding to the family?”
“How old is this latest wife?” asked Pam.
“About Alison’s age, I’d say,” said Sue. “I saw her at the salon when I was getting these highlights.” She tossed her head. “Expensive highlights, I might add, not that any of you have noticed.”
“I noticed,” said Pam, dipping her spoon into her yogurt. “I thought your stylist missed a few bits.”
“Monsieur Paul does not miss any bits,” said Sue, not the least bit amused. “And he was making
