Aspen Allegations - A Sutton Massachusetts Mystery

Chapter 6

"Sounds lovely." I smiled, intrigued.

He paused for a moment. "We have a concert coming up on Saturday, if you'd like to see us. It's a benefit at the Singletary Rod and Gun club, on the Oxford line."

"I would like that a lot," I agreed.

He smiled, then, and glanced over for a moment. Then he was back to watching the road, his gaze serious again.

"Did you want to do this quickly, so you can get to the fire station to vote?" he asked, and his tone was carefully neutral.

I shook my head. "I took care of that already," I let him know. "A close presidential election this year, and some interesting ballot questions. Medical marijuana and right-to-die."

"Hmmmm," he offered.

I smiled at that. I tended to hold my political leanings close to the vest, and with all the deluge of flyers and pamphlets in my mailbox for the past month, I appreciated that someone else was willing to keep low key on the topic.

When I did not respond, he smiled. "I voted as well," he stated, "and I see you are not belligerent about your politics. That's a welcome relief."

"There's a reason I thought about going out to talk with Sam today," I stated. "A good way to stay away from the TV and its non-stop coverage."

He turned left onto Nipmuc Road, and in short order we were driving amongst farm buildings and open fields. "Here we are," he stated after a moment. "This is their farm store."

My eyes lit up. To the right was a small pen, and behind it was a larger pasture with a pair of small horses. I went to the pen first. It was chilly out, and I pulled the neck of my parka closer. A small calf was in a plastic shed, curled up against himself. I felt his isolation. Cows are herd creatures; they feel safest when among a group of their own kind, bolstered by their members. He seemed alone and unsure.

"Hey there, little one," I called out to the white-and-black animal, and he blinked at me with large, brown eyes.

We strolled around to the back pasture, and one of the small horses ambled over to greet us. I stayed back, but Jason moved forward to the rail, waiting for the chestnut to approach him. The horse nibbled at his arm, the long pink tongue lapping along its length, searching for a carrot. Jason waited until the horse nuzzled him in the elbow before reaching out to gently rub along his nose.

"Friendly," I agreed, glancing back at the other horse which remained at the far end of the pasture. "I guess he thinks we might be bringing him a treat."

The front of the store held an assortment of decorative gourds as well as butternut squash. Inside the space was small but well maintained. Freezer space held home-made pies and cuts of meat. There was local honey, from tupelo to blueberry to orange blossom. There was fudge from Eaton Farms, another local shop. Several varieties of apples were on offer. And then there were items clearly brought in from elsewhere – pineapples, for example.

I was intrigued by the blueberry honey, and we brought a jar to the register. As the young woman rang it up, I asked if Sam was around. She nodded in answer, and after she handed me my change she headed into the back room.

Sam was much as I had imagined he would be. Stocky, creased, with greying hair and weathered skin. He was wearing blue jeans and a blue flannel top.

His voice was gruff but not unkind. "You wanted to see me?"

I put out my hand. "My name is Morgan Warren, and this is my friend Jason Rowland. We have come to talk with you about John Dixon."

A shadow drifted across his face, but he shook our hands. "A tragedy," he stated roughly.