“Do you know her father is married to a woman the same age as Alison?” asked Franny. “And she’s pregnant.”
“Her father is Ed Franklin,” said Pam. “Imagine being related to him.”
“He is terrible, I admit that,” said Miss Tilley. “That big gold F on his chimney! So tasteless. But I have observed that very often the more horrible and vulgar a man is, the nicer his relations are. It’s as if they’re aware of his shortcomings and attempting to make amends. Just think of that basketball coach we had a few years ago. His wife was the loveliest woman.”
“Well, if you don’t think she overdosed, how exactly do you think Alison died?” asked Lucy.
“Well, I’ve heard all sorts of theories about drugs and even suicide or a tragic accident,” said Miss Tilley. “But I think she was murdered.” She didn’t even pause for breath after making that astonishing comment but went on to ask, “How much for the pie?”
* * *
Lucy was still thinking about Miss Tilley’s provocative comment after the festival was over and she went on to work at the Pennysaver office. Phyllis had taken the afternoon off to help her husband, Wilf, who was having cataract surgery, and Ted was covering a regional conference on flood insurance, so she had the place to herself. After she’d uploaded the photos she took at the sale, she googled drug rehab programs and made a few phone calls. She was surprised to learn that Hank was right and the programs did require up-front payment.
“These folks are drug addicts,” said the admission counselor at a place in New Hampshire called New Beginnings. “We want them to commit to getting clean. Recovery is not easy. Our program is four weeks long and even with the big financial cost we have dropouts.”
“What about health insurance?” asked Lucy, who had opened a file in her computer and was entering the counselor’s comments with an eye to including them in the series on drug addiction. “Drug addiction is a disease, after all.”
“It varies depending on the policy,” said the counselor. “But it’s an unusual patient who has coverage. By the time they come to us, they’ve pretty much bottomed out. Health insurance is usually tied to employment and most of our folks don’t have jobs.”
“So how do they come up with the money?” asked Lucy.
“Family, friends, people who love them. Parents often patch together the money using several credit cards.”
“Ten thousand dollars is a lot of love,” said Lucy, “especially if you’re paying twenty percent interest.”
“It is indeed,” said the counselor. “But it’s not uncommon. We actually have a waiting list.”
“Let’s add my young friend to the list,” said Lucy on impulse, figuring that it was worth taking a chance. Maybe, just maybe, something would come up and Hank could go to rehab. In any case, the difficulty of getting into a rehab program would definitely be part of the series on drug addiction.
She remained at her desk after completing the call, cleaning up the file which she’d typed while talking on the phone. The whole situation was depressing, she thought, thinking of the mess these young people got themselves into and the difficulty of getting out. What future did Hank have if he couldn’t get clean? She hated to think of him becoming a homeless straggler, relying on the food pantry for something to eat, or even worse, dying of an overdose. What a waste of a promising young man!
The sound of a police siren penetrated her dark mood and she brightened up, realizing it was signaling the start of the high school football team’s pregame parade and rally, which she was supposed to cover for the paper. The team was having a successful year and would play on Saturday in the semifinal for the state championship. She quickly put on her warm jacket and grabbed her bag, heading out to join the folks lining Main Street where a police cruiser with flashing lights and wailing siren was leading the procession.
The parade was a homegrown affair, featuring the high school marching band, civic groups, and of course, the town’s four fire trucks. The highlight of the parade was a flatbed truck carrying the uniformed team members, most looking rather self-conscious at all the attention.
Lucy waved and clapped as the various marchers went past, joining the cheerful watchers standing on the sidewalk. She snapped photos of the high school kids in the marching band, the team members, and Jason Marzetti (Joe Marzetti’s kid) dressed for some reason as Uncle Sam and walking on stilts. The ladies from Fran’s Famous Fudge tossed wrapped candy to the kids, and she got a great photo of a little blond tyke catching a piece in mid-air.
The kid was adorable, a fair-haired and ruddy-cheeked angel, and Lucy found herself wondering if she would characterize a black child with a curly Afro as adorable and angelic, but hoped she would. She was suddenly looking at the crowd with new eyes, realizing that it was entirely white and mostly adult. Of course, Maine had a very small minority population, but somehow she had never realized that fact. How had she lived in this town for several decades without realizing this?
She had grown up in New York City, riding the subway to her high school, sharing the train with all sorts of people—Hasidic Jews in hats and long black coats, elderly Asian women with shopping bags, mixed-race couples holding hands. She visited Boston from time to time, and there she saw Muslim women in head scarves, African-American women wearing kente cloth dresses and turbans and big gold earrings, and lots of kids of all races.
Looking at the rather thin crowd with new eyes, she was shocked to realize most of the people were senior citizens. It wasn’t only Tinker’s Cove, she knew, that was largely old and white. It was most of rural New England, and no wonder. Property was expensive, housing was limited, and good jobs were even scarcer
