Aspen Allegations - A Sutton Massachusetts Mystery

Chapter 2

So Juliet had become mine, and I had dealt with the allergies as a small price to pay for the steadfast love she had provided. Even now my skin tingled as she meandered between my arms, making sure to delicately trace her tail over every inch of my face and neck.

Into warrior pose II. This always reminded me of an archer, drawing back the string on her bow, focusing all of her attention on the shot ahead of her.

The shot.

My breathing caught. I wavered for a moment, then shook it off. This practice was about releasing thoughts – about losing oneself in the moment awhile. That training served me well through each day, helped me to focus and move through challenges as smoothly as I could.

I finished the warrior poses and sat down on the mat to do my seated twist. I loved this action; I could feel the vertebrae in my spine lifting and relaxing, settling more properly in their alignment. It felt good in a way few things did.

Then it was cat-cow, which to my amusement some yoga instructors were now calling relaxed cat and arched cat. Apparently women didn't like being called "cows". Were we that concerned about our appearance that even the names of simple animal shapes could hurt us? I did not mind at all the thought of being a serene, contented jersey in a highland meadow, breathing in the fresh breezes, nibbling on heather flowers and soaking in the joy of living.

And then, extended child pose. A relaxing of everything, forehead to the mat, arms stretched forward in an ultimate release to the universe.

The sobs came on slowly at first, a hiccup in my breathing, then they were shaking me loose, the tears streaming from my eyes in a river, my palms pressed flat against the mat in surrender. I could not tell where the emotion had come from; it simply was there, densely surrounding me. It was as if from a peaceful, blue day a roiling thunderstorm had materialized, the slate-grey clouds filling my senses, the rolling thunder going on for long minutes without rest.

At long last the storm began to break, glimpses of sky appeared through the rain, and my breathing was more than a desperate gulp amongst the cries. I lay slumped against the mat, pulling my shirt up to blot away the dampness of my face.

The phone rang.

I gave my head a shake to clear it, then pushed myself to my feet, taking the two steps to where the phone sat alongside the sliding glass door.

"Yes?" I asked shakily. Confusion laced through my thoughts. Nobody ever called me. My friends and family all understood I preferred email, especially with the odd hours I kept. For all they knew I was still sound asleep after doing a server upgrade until six a.m.

"Morgan Warren?" asked a deep voice which seemed strangely familiar. I could not place it and sagged with the guilt of my inability to recognize who it was.

"Yes," I said again, my mind not processing thoughts in a linear order. Was I supposed to say something else?

"This is Jason, the ranger you met yesterday," he supplied.

Suddenly the dominos began to settle into a line, the world adjusted itself into a clearer pattern. Yes. That had been the voice alongside me as the waves of police arrived, as the EMTs came to examine the body, as the hunter was taken off to answer questions at the station.

His voice came again in my ear. "Morgan, are you all right?"

I realized that I must have left a pause; my brain was not quite moving forward. "Yes," I lied automatically, for it was what people always said, wasn't it? Things were fine. Everything was going to be fine.

Now he paused for a moment, and when he spoke again a trace of worry had roughened his voice. "Morgan, do you have someone you can talk with?"

I ran a hand distractedly along my hair, smoothing it back into place. "I was going to go by Matthew's tomorrow."

His voice was short. "Oh." Another pause. "Well, if you need anything, you still have my card, right?"

"Yes," I agreed. I remembered now, the clean edges of the piece of paper, the whiteness of it against the twisting browns of the forest floor. The feel of his fingers against mine as he handed it to me – warm, sure, steady.

"I will let you go, then," he murmured, and his voice sounded far away. "Have a ... well, hang in there."

"You too," I answered, and then there was a soft click as the connection ended.

I put the phone back into its cradle. I had meant to see Matthew, it was true. He was in his late sixties and volunteered at the Sutton Senior Center, running computer training and repairing PCs for the community there. I was on a de-cluttering push and had found some spare power supplies and DVD drives that I knew he would put to good use. Besides, Matthew and his wife Joan were wonderful people to spend time with. Their home faced out over Ramshorn Pond. I'd spent many delightful afternoons sitting on their back porch, sipping tea, watching the resident heron glide slowly across the water.

But I did not know if I could bring myself to face the world quite yet, not after what had happened.

I finished my yoga routine, ending by sitting cross-legged and staring out into the yard. There was a gentle carpet of leaves, this one different from the forest, for I had a selection of maples in my mix which was mostly absent in the deeper woods. The edges of the lawn were a beautiful watercolor of yellows, crimsons, and fading greens created by the Virginia creeper which billowed there.

In the center of the lawn a square was marked off by black wire fencing; within it the remnants of the summer's tangerine-orange day lilies were held in place. A double shepherd's crook sprouted from their center. In warmer weather it held a pair of hummingbird feeders, and my yoga sessions were delightfully punctuated by visits of these buzzing helicopters of crimson and emerald. But the first frost had already come and gone, and now suet feeders hung there, luring in the nuthatches and chickadees.

Namaste.

I stood and made myself a protein shake for breakfast, as I always did, then walked the twenty steps into my home office, settling down before my computer, preparing to start my day.

I scanned my email, the normal litany of concerns and questions and suggestions jostling for my attention. But it was only moments before I had opened a browser window and hopped to the Worcester Telegram's website. Sutton was not large enough to have a paper of its own – we were but a small part of Worcester County, and only when something fairly exciting happened here would we get mentioned in the paper. I imagined that this might qualify.

Even so, it was not the lead story. A large section blared about "Election 2012," while the other feature was on how Hurricane Sandy's path through our region had not seemed to affect gas prices. The US unemployment rate rose to 7.9%. I had to look down further before I found a mention of it. "Tragic Hunting Accident in Sutton."

I paused for a moment before clicking. How would they reduce a life of a man – a life cut short in an instant – to simple black and white words?

They did their best. His name had been John Dixon, aged 71. He had grown up in Sutton and had worked as an ad executive for many years. He had enjoyed fishing and reading. He was survived by one son, also of Sutton.

I stared at John's photo, striving to replace the scene in my mind with this happy, smiling man. John had embraced life, had relished time with his son, had likely cast from the banks of Lake Singletary seeking the elusive rainbow trout.

At least his death had been quick, or so had murmured the EMTs as they bundled his body into the black bag. Straight through the heart, instant, perhaps even painless. Compared with other scenes they had visited, and given the myriad of choices life tended to offer, not a bad way to go after all.

I closed the browser window, pensive. I wanted to learn more about this man and how he had come to this sudden end.