Lucy’s jaw dropped. “You think the police will suspect you of killing Ed Franklin?”
“I’m afraid so,” admitted Ruth.
Lucy glanced around the prim and neat house, and considered Ruth’s work as a church organist. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
Just then the kettle shrieked and Ruth grabbed a pot holder and snatched it off the stove.
“That’s certainly a relief, Lucy,” she said, filling the teapot. “But just to be on the safe side, I think I’ll take my Glock into the station. They’ll be able to tell that it hasn’t been fired.”
“Your Glock?” asked Lucy, shocked to her core.
CHAPTER 10
Lucy had enjoyed a half-dozen of Ruth’s homemade oatmeal cookies, but she hadn’t gotten any more information about her gruesome discovery. She had learned, however, that Ruth’s father had given her the Glock many years before, and Ruth went straight to the shooting range every Sunday after church to practice. She had blushingly admitted she was quite a good shot, a fact that Lucy was mulling over when she finally left to go home. She had made numerous calls to Ted to tell him about Ed Franklin, but the messages had all gone to voice mail.
She was pouring herself a glass of chardonnay and wondering if Bill would be content with soup and sandwiches for supper when Ted finally called.
“Are you sure about this? Ed Franklin is dead? Shot in his car in broad daylight?”
“I’m sure,” said Lucy in a grim tone. “I saw him. Blood everywhere.”
“Wow,” said Ted. “Any chance it was suicide?”
She paused, forcing herself to recall the sight of Ed Franklin’s bloody body before she’d recoiled in horror and looked away. Ed was leaning away from the driver’s side window, and all that remained of the window were a few shards of glass.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “The driver’s side window was broken and Ed’s body was leaning away from the window. If he’d shot himself and the bullet also broke the window, I think he’d be leaning the other way. Also, I didn’t see a gun in the car with him, but I didn’t look for one, either. It was pretty gruesome.” She paused and gulped down some wine. “There was an anti-Mexican demonstration going on in front of the old pub. It was pretty noisy so I guess nobody heard the shot. Ruth Lawson discovered the body.”
“The church lady?”
“The organist.”
“My word,” said Ted.
“One of the demonstrators—it was actually Jason Sprinkle—claimed he saw Matt Rodriguez standing next to Ed’s car. Even claims he heard a popping sound, but Rey insists his son doesn’t have a gun.”
“But he would have a motive,” said Ted. “Ed was giving the Rodriguezes a lot of trouble.”
“I bet Ed Franklin gave a lot of people a lot of trouble,” said Lucy. “He was just like that. And don’t forget, this is the second death in the Franklin family in a couple weeks.”
“What are you saying, Lucy? That there’s some sort of vendetta against the Franklins?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Lucy. “But it’s certainly worth looking into.”
* * *
That was the question Lucy pondered all weekend, and the one she wanted to pose when she went to the District Attorney’s press conference on Monday morning, but she had to wait a good long while. The conference was late getting started as the conference room in the county complex proved too small for the large number of reporters assigned to cover the sensational death. Ed Franklin was a household name, known by one and all as typifying the American Dream of achieving success and untold wealth, and his murder was attracting a lot of interest.
After everyone had relocated to a larger space, actually a vacant courtroom, Phil Aucoin began by introducing representatives from the various law enforcement agencies involved in the investigation and congratulating them at length on their spirit of cooperation. Then there was a bit of a flap until the press releases he planned to distribute were found, apparently mislaid in the switch. Once found, it took only moments for the reporters to read the few printed lines and begin loud demands for more information.
“All this says is that Franklin was killed execution style by a person or persons unknown,” began Deb Hildreth, who worked for a local radio station. “Do you have a theory, a motive? Are there any suspects?”
“I am unable to provide more information at this time,” said Aucoin, “as it might hinder the investigation.”
“Do you think Franklin’s outspoken opposition to immigration might be the reason he was killed?” demanded Pete Withers, a stringer for the Portland Press Herald.
“I can assure the public that we are following a number of leads,” said Aucoin.
“Franklin was involved in a number of failed businesses and even filed for bankruptcy a couple times,” alleged Stan Hurwitz, from the Boston Globe. “Could the shooter be a disappointed creditor?”
“Could be,” said Aucoin. “As I said, we’re following a number of leads.”
“Any ties to organized crime?” asked another reporter, speaking with a thick New York accent. “There were rumors . . .”
“There are always rumors about high-profile people,” said Aucoin.
“What about his family?” asked Angela Hawkins, from NECN. “He had a very bitter divorce.”
“Once again, we’re following a number of leads,” said Aucoin. “We will certainly be taking a look at everyone who had dealings with him, including his family.”
Finally Aucoin pointed his finger at Lucy and she got her chance. “It’s quite a coincidence that his daughter, Alison, died in a suspicious manner just a few weeks ago. Do you think there may be a vendetta against the Franklin family?”
The question caused quite a hubbub. Many of the reporters were new to the story and hadn’t known about Alison Franklin’s drowning and they began shouting questions.
“What happened to the daughter?”
“When was this?”
“How did she die?”
“Quiet down. One at a time.” Aucoin waited for the unruly crowd of reporters to settle down. When everyone was back in their seats and quiet restored, he spoke.
“We have no reason
