“Exactly how many Mrs. Franklins are there?” asked Lucy.
“At least two, according to Monsieur Paul. There’s Alison’s mother, who must be at least fifty or so, and Mireille, who I doubt is old enough to buy a bottle of wine. Not that she would have any business buying wine, not in her condition.”
“That does muddy the waters, doesn’t it?” mused Rachel. “Imagine what it would have been like for Alison to have a stepmother who is her own age.”
“And pregnant,” said Pam.
“A constant reminder of this young stepmother’s allure,” said Rachel. “Not to mention her father’s sexual potency.”
“Yuck,” said Pam.
Yuck indeed, thought Lucy, pushing her plate away. She thought of the Franklin home, the mansion perched high above the roiling sea below, and wondered what emotions were in play behind those massive walls, and if some primal forces drove Alison to her watery grave.
* * *
When Lucy got to work later that morning she discovered Ted had a completely different take on Alison Franklin’s death.
“You know, Lucy,” he said as she shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the coat rack, “I’ve been getting a lot of calls about this Alison. People are upset and most of them blame drugs. That’s what they’re saying—that we have to stop this heroin epidemic that’s claiming our young people.”
“It’s true,” said Phyllis. “We’ve had at least three calls this morning.”
“I’ve had some e-mails, too,” said Ted.
“I’ve heard that theory, too, but I don’t think it was drugs, Ted,” said Lucy, remembering the hot pink fleece jacket and the running shoes. “I think she was out for a run.”
“Lucy, people don’t run on thin ice.”
“Maybe she didn’t know about the way ponds freeze. Not everybody grows up knowing these things. Maybe she’s a city kid. Maybe she made a very bad mistake. It happens—like when that trucker tried to take his semi under the old railroad overpass last month and got stuck.”
“That was quite a hoot,” said Phyllis. “ ’Course, nobody dies of embarrassment.”
“Well, all I know is that a lot of people are blaming this opioid epidemic and want some answers. It’s about time we put Jim Kirwan on the spot and ask what he’s doing to stop these senseless deaths.”
“You want me to call the police chief?” asked Lucy, sitting down at her desk.
“Good idea, Lucy,” said Ted as if it hadn’t been his idea all along.
“Okay,” said Lucy, anticipating the chief’s reaction, “but he’s not going to be happy.”
As she expected, Chief Kirwan was immediately defensive when she asked what his department was doing to combat the opioid epidemic. “As you well know, Lucy, we are not the only town coping with this influx of drugs. Heck, it’s a national problem. It’s complex. There’s high unemployment among youth, limited prospects for kids who don’t go to college, folks can’t get ahead, and heroin is cheap and plentiful. Truth is, it’s easier for kids to get illegal drugs than to buy a six-pack. It’s not like we’re ignoring the problem. We’ve got a new program with the courts—we don’t prosecute if the addicts agree to go to rehab . . . but oftentimes there’s no rehab places available.” He sighed. “Facts are facts. We’re a small department with very limited resources and we’re doing all we can.”
“I know,” said Lucy in a sympathetic tone. “People are upset over this latest thing. You know . . . Alison Franklin’s death.”
“Well, people shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” he said in a sharp tone. “The investigation is still ongoing and the cause of death has not been determined. We don’t know if drugs were involved and we won’t know until the toxicology results come in from the ME’s office.”
“When will that be?” asked Lucy.
He snorted. “I wish I knew. The state lab is underbudgeted and understaffed.”
“I won’t hold my breath then. Thanks,” said Lucy, ending the call.
“Just as I expected,” said Ted, who had been listening to Lucy’s end of the call. “The same old, same old.” He paused. “Well, we’re not going to settle for lame excuses. I want to know what Alison’s family has to say. I bet Ed Franklin wants some answers and he’s the kind of guy who gets ’em.”
“Ted, you’re not going to make me call him, are you? The man just lost his daughter. . . .”
“And I bet he wants people to know what a wonderful girl she was, and how much he loved her,” said Ted.
“The poor man must be beside himself with grief,” protested Lucy.
“That’s funny,” observed Phyllis. “You called him poor, but he’s not poor. He’s probably the richest man in the state.”
“You know what I mean,” said Lucy, glaring at Phyllis.
“There’s no rush,” said Ted. “You’ve got till next Wednesday. Give him a call next week . . . when he’s had some time to get over it.”
People don’t get over an unexpected, violent, tragic death of a loved one in a few days, thought Lucy, biting her tongue. Sometimes Ted got so involved in a story that he lost all sense of perspective or even decency. But noticing how he was hunched over his computer keyboard pursuing truth and combating evil one keystroke at a time, she admitted it was that determination that kept him going.
“Okay, I’ll do it Monday,” she said, booting up her computer to check her e-mails.
As it happened, she didn’t have to wait until Monday to call Ed Franklin. She was just about to leave the office later that afternoon when the door flew open, setting the little bell to jangling, and the man himself walked in.
Lucy had never seen him in the flesh, but everybody had seen photos of the billionaire who was frequently in the news. He was most often featured in the business pages, announcing the construction of a new condo tower, golf course, or gambling casino. These projects were always described as fabulous, luxurious, or magnificent.
