Aucoin and the other officials made quick exits, leaving Lucy to deal with the out-of-town reporters’ demands for information about Alison’s death. “You can read about it on the Pennysaver website,” she said as mikes were thrust in her face.
“C’mon, Lucy, just give us the gist,” urged the guy with the New York accent as she tossed her notebook into her bag and started to make her way through the crowd to the doorway.
“I’ve got it!” crowed Pete Withers, peering at his smartphone and reading from Lucy’s story. “Right here. ‘Alison Franklin, daughter of billionaire Ed Franklin, drowned in local pond’ . . . blah blah blah . . . oh, get this. ‘DA Phil Aucoin cautioned that the cause of death has not been determined. In light of the recent opioid epidemic, he said he is waiting for toxicology test results from the state lab, but added that these tests are now routinely mandated for all unaccompanied deaths.’ ”
“So they think little Alison overdosed?” asked the New Yorker, blocking Lucy’s path.
“I have no idea,” said Lucy, shaking her head and trying to slide by him.
“What do most people think? This is Hicksville. People talk. What are they saying?”
“You’ll have to ask them,” said Lucy, finding a gap and slipping through.
“Hey!” somebody yelled. “There’s Deb Hildreth. Ask her! She works for the local radio station.”
Poor Deb, thought Lucy, abandoning her to the media scrum as she stepped into the airy lobby and the door closed behind her.
It was a typical November day, gray and miserable, and Lucy’s spirits plunged as she made the drive from Gilead to Tinker’s Cove. It was horrible to think that things like this could happen in the little town that she loved. Alison’s death was bad enough—it was always awful when a young person died—but Ed’s brutal murder overshadowed everything. The man was shot in broad daylight, right in the heart of town. It seemed incredible that such a thing could happen. Who would do such a thing? And why? Whoever killed Ed must have really hated him, she thought, finding it difficult to imagine how anyone could simply pull a trigger and blow off another person’s head.
Of course, it happened all the time. Gun shootings were common occurrences in the US, and there were the constant reports of suicide bombings and assassinations and attacks on innocent people in Europe and the Middle East. Come to think of it, she decided with a sigh, it seemed that there were actually an awful lot of people who were not the least bit reluctant to take other people’s lives.
* * *
“Wow, you look like you lost your best friend,” observed Phyllis when Lucy arrived in the office later that morning. Phyllis was dressed today in a harvest-themed sweater featuring a design of apples and pumpkins, and her hair was tinted a flaming orange.
“Not yet, but you never know, the way things are going,” Lucy said glumly, dropping her bag on the floor with a thunk so she could unbutton her jacket.
“How was the press conference?” asked Ted, who was staring at his computer screen.
“Crowded.” Lucy hung up her jacket, then bent down and picked up her bag. From the way she moved you would have thought it was filled with bricks. “There was even an obnoxious guy from New York and lots of people from TV stations.”
“Well, Ed Franklin was famous,” said Ted. “Any new developments?”
Lucy sank into her desk chair and leaned her elbow on her desk, propping up her chin as if her head was much too great a load for her neck to bear. “Killed execution style. I guess we could’ve come up with that on our own.”
“Talk about stating the obvious,” muttered Ted. “No suspects?”
“Aucoin’s playing his hand close to his chest,” said Lucy.
“Dot Kirwan says it’s all hands on deck, overtime for everybody—vacations and off-time cancelled,” reported Phyllis. “She’s real upset since Patsy was scheduled for maternity leave next week. Now she’s going to have to work until she pops.”
Patsy Kirwan was the police department dispatcher, just one of Dot’s many relations who worked in the town’s police and fire departments.
“Of course, you can see why they’re so anxious to get the killer,” continued Phyllis. “Talk about cold-blooded. It gives me the willies every time I think about it.”
In spite of herself, Lucy found herself smiling. “Somehow I don’t think we need to worry about getting shot in our sleep by some sort of serial killer maniac.”
“Lucy’s right,” said Ted. “Ed Franklin was targeted. He was killed because somebody wanted him dead.”
“Well, the one I feel bad for is that little wife of his,” said Phyllis. “She’s pregnant, you know, and even if she is a gold digger like everyone says, it must be awfully hard on her losing her husband like that. Of course, she’s probably going to make out fine financially and all.”
“That reminds me,” said Ted. “I bet AP’s got a file obit up for Ed Franklin. Want to check that for me, Lucy? Give it a local twist, get some quotes from the town’s movers and shakers.”
“Roger Wilco,” said Lucy, relieved to be given a simple, undemanding assignment. And besides, she was interested in learning more about Ed Franklin’s past. The past, she knew, often held the key to understanding the present and the obit did yield some surprising information.
It began with the usual summary of Ed Franklin’s achievements—graduated from Dartmouth where he played football, went on to Harvard where he earned an MBA, began climbing the corporate ladder, ending as CEO of Dynamo where his high-profile leadership style made him a household name. It was Franklin’s family history that caught her interest. His grandfather was a German immigrant, Emil Franck, who ran a beer hall on the Lower East Side of New York City. The beer hall was successful and he soon
