The man himself, however, was shorter than she expected, although that mane of silver hair and the ruddy complexion were unmistakable. So was the expensively tailored suit that couldn’t quite conceal his paunch. “Who’s in charge here?” he demanded in the raspy voice she’d heard on TV.
“That would be me,” said Ted, jumping to his feet. “I’m Ted Stillings. How can I help you, Mr. Franklin?”
“Look here,” said Franklin, plunging right in. “I’ve had it with all this political correctness, this so-called tolerance. It’s time we put a stop to these Mexican drug traffickers bringing heroin and marijuana here and poisoning our kids. Where is the outrage? There’s supposed to be a war on drugs, but if this is how we fight a war . . . well, it’s no surprise we’re not winning. I’m going to get straight to the point. This is what I want you to do—I want you to run an exposé of this filthy business. Let people know where these drugs are coming from and how we can stop it. I speak from personal experience here. I just lost my daughter. A beautiful girl. Gorgeous, and smart, too. I know what I’m talking about. It’s these filthy Mexicans and we’ve got to get them out of the country.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” said Ted, stunned by Franklin’s outburst. “We all are,” he added with a wave in Lucy and Phyllis’s direction.
“You have our sympathy,” said Lucy.
“You’re in our thoughts and prayers,” added Phyllis.
“That’s neither here nor there,” said Franklin in a gruff tone, brushing aside their condolences. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
“It’s not clear that your daughter died because of drugs,” said Lucy. “The toxicology tests haven’t been completed.”
“Well, what else could it be?” demanded Franklin. “She had everything to live for. And I mean everything. Looks. Money. Connections. Everything.”
“As it happens, we did call Chief Kirwan today, asking tough questions about the current opioid epidemic,” said Ted.
“That’s a start,” said Franklin, “but you’ve got to take it further. We have to get to the source and cut off this vicious trade. It’s these Mexicans. They’re like a plague, swarming across the border, bringing death to our kids and destroying our American values. Our American way of life.” He paused and looked around the office, taking in the worn and shabby atmosphere. “Look, see here. I’m a businessman and I know these are bad times for newspapers. I’m always looking for good investments and I see a lot of potential here. What you need is capital so you can expand. Maybe start a magazine, an online edition of the paper. Hell, the sky’s the limit if you’ve got vision and the cash to make it a reality.”
“We’re doing just fine the way we are,” said Ted, his dander rising. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“Ted . . . you don’t mind if I call you Ted, do you?” Franklin asked, continuing without pause. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of guys like you. Frankly, I think you’re one of those guys who’ll go down with the ship, blaming the tides and currents. But you could be the captain of your destiny, if you’d take my advice. This is an issue that could make a dinky small town paper like yours into a national player.” He shrugged. “But have it your way. There’s nothing wrong with being a big frog in a small pond, if that’s all you want to be.” With that parting shot, Ed Franklin pushed the door open, making the little bell jangle, and let it slam behind him, causing the wooden blinds on the plate glass window to slap against the glass.
“Wow, he’s a noisy guy,” said Phyllis, smoothing her angora sweater over her chest.
“I’m pretty sure we haven’t heard the last of him,” said Lucy.
“Did he actually call me a big frog?” asked Ted, looking puzzled.
CHAPTER 3
Several days later, Lucy found herself in the basement meeting room at the town hall, covering the weekly meeting of the board of selectmen. The town meeting voters were a thrifty lot and didn’t go in for frills so the room where the town’s business was conducted was a very plain affair. The concrete block walls had been painted yellow a long time ago, perhaps in a misguided effort to lighten the gloom, but instead made everyone look slightly jaundiced. Fluorescent lights, rows of beige metal chairs, and gray industrial-strength floor tile certainly didn’t help.
The detail that always amused Lucy, however, was the little raised platform where the five selectmen sat behind a long table. The platform was a mere six inches high, allowing the citizens in attendance to get a clear view of these elected officials while ensuring that they didn’t get above themselves. Behind the table an American flag stood in one corner and the Maine state flag in the other. There were nameplates on the table for each selectman, as well as a microphones, now that the meetings were televised on local cable TV.
Attendance at the meetings had fallen off since people could watch the antics of the board members from the comfort of their homes, but a few stalwarts still showed up each week. Town curmudgeon Stan Wysocki was in his usual seat and local fussbudget Verity Hawthorne had brought her knitting. When things got slow at the meetings, Lucy sometimes entertained herself by wondering exactly what the shapeless mass of moss green that grew larger every week was meant to be. A sweater for a yeti? An afghan for a cow? A cozy for Verity’s aged Dodge?
“Hi, Lucy,” said Corney Clark, slipping into the seat beside her. “I’m glad you’re covering this meeting.”
“I cover them all,” said Lucy, stifling a yawn.
“Well, tonight’s going to be worth your while,” said Corney, making her eyes quite large and giving a little nod that caused her expertly cut blond hair to
