I sat at my kitchen table, holding the mug of tea in my hands, looking out at the feeder in the side yard. A blue jay hung on the side of the sunflower seed feeder, hogging the seeds, swallowing them whole. A brave chickadee swooped to the opposite side, grabbed a hold of a single seed, then flitted away.
A movement caught my eye, and I smiled as a small flock of juncos descended on the cracked corn I had scattered on the larger rock at the edge of the property line. Winter was coming. The foraging of the small half-grey, half-white birds was one of the clearest indications we had that snow was just around the corner. Luckily I had already put away all the lawn items last week before Sandy descended on the region, so I was ready for the snow. Last year we had the infamous Halloween nor'easter which blanketed us with nearly a foot. Perhaps we were lucky that it was November fourth and we were still snow-free.
I sighed and sipped my tea, rolling my head along my shoulders. I hadn't slept well last night, and once again my yoga routine in the morning had failed to bring me peace. My hands still smelt of rosemary from where I had run them through my container plant before beginning yoga practice. I breathed in the pungent smell.
At last I grabbed one of my hemp bags and began filling it with the leftover cookie packs from Halloween. I had only had nineteen kids this year, in three large groups. This left me with quite a few goodie bags which needed to go to the food pantry before they ended up in my stomach. I knew that part of the lure was that the food pantry was located in the Sutton Senior Center, and I was curious to see what the talk was there about John's death.
* * *
The Sutton Senior Center is located on Hough Road. To its left was a playground, complete with softball field and slide. To its right lay a large cemetery. I often wondered how the seniors felt about that, sandwiched between the joyful activity of youth and a final resting place.
The building was low, long, and fairly pleasant. An administrative counter lay to the left as I came in, and I knew Matthew's computer lab and training area was through a door to the right. I moved to the counter, hefting my bag of goodies onto the wood.
I called out through the open doorway to the woman sitting in the office beyond. "A few things for the pantry," I let her know with a smile.
"Certainly," she responded brightly, coming over to meet me. "I am sure these will be appreciated as we head into the holiday season. Just leave them in that box there." She motioned to a cardboard box to the left of the counter.
I nodded, depositing the items where she asked, then moved down the hall to the main room. A scattering of round tables and wooden chairs were arranged on a blue-and-white diamond-tiled floor. There were perhaps fifteen people sitting and talking quietly. Most of the seniors were female, but there were a few men peppering the room. For today, at least, the predominant color of clothing was somber black.
One of the men looked up as I entered, and he stood to come greet me. He had dark hair with just a single streak of grey along his left temple. He was slender, but far from gaunt, and his dark eyes held a thriving strength to them.
"You'll be Morgan," he welcomed me with a gentle Texan drawl. "Matthew said you might be by. I'm Adam; John was a dear friend of mine."
"I am sorry for your loss," I offered, taking his hands in mine. They were thin, but far from feeble. "Matthew said that you and John spent a lot of time together."
He nodded in agreement. "Yes, we did. When I moved up from Texas, some fifteen years ago, John was the one who welcomed me and made me feel at home. He and I shared a love of fishin'."
He brought me over to one of the unoccupied tables, waiting for me to sit before he took his own seat alongside me.
I found it hard to begin. "What was he like?" I asked at last.
He smiled, his eyes misting for a moment. "He enjoyed life," he stated. He glanced around him. "He loved it here. He was the head honcho, and it seemed that everyone who met him adored him."
"But not his friends from his youth?"
The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. "So Matthew told you about the four hobbits?" he asked, his eyes sparkling. "Yes, John would laugh about that. I think he felt he had outgrown that group; they had stayed within their little village while he had gone off and seen the world. He thought they could no longer relate to all the things he had done and experienced."
"And you?"
"I was in politics, like John. I grew up in Texas, became an Army Ranger out of high school, and then went here and there for quite a while. When I ended up in Sutton after I retired, John and I became fast friends." A shadow crossed his eyes. "He was taken far too soon. A horrible, tragic accident."
I leant forward. "So you feel it was the hunter?"
One eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Why, what else could it be?"
I lowered my voice. "Well, they have not found the bullet yet," I confided. "And the hunter swears he was not shooting in that direction."
His brows creased. "So you think someone did this to him deliberately?"
I shrugged. "I don't know what I think," I admitted. "It just seems very odd. He should have known better than to be in those woods in the middle of hunting season, dressed in forest green. Where was his car? And he just happens to be shot by the lone hunter who is aiming in the opposite direction?"
He nodded slowly. "I see your point. What do the police think?"
"The police are still investigating; perhaps they will come up with something soon. After all, it has only been a few days."
His lips pressed together. "From what I read, if a crime is not solved within the first forty-eight hours, the chances of doing so drop. Any traces of evidence are quickly washed away."
A woman's voice called out from the far end of the table. "Scrabble!"
He looked up. "I am afraid they need me to make a fourth," he admitted. "But if you are serious –"
I shook my head, not sure of anything at all. "I am still wound up from what I saw," I demurred. "I only have vague worries and unsettled feelings."
"Still," he pressed. "If you're fixin' to poke into this, I would be interested in hearing any news you come across. John was a good friend of mine. Perhaps this would be worth us looking into further."
I nodded my head. "Maybe when the M.E. report is finalized we'll know more."
"That's a good idea, to wait to see what it says," he agreed. "Can we touch base then?"
I nodded, and he took my hand for a moment before turning away.
* * *
The evening sky was filling with rich shades of blue, fading down to a delicate peach along the corrugated skyline of fir tops. I was driving south, toward Newport, Rhode Island, to have dinner with my mother and stepfather for her birthday. Route four was clear, and I drew in a deep breath, soaking in the beauty of the glistening sunset.
My cell rang, and I picked it up. "Hello?"
"Hey, Morgan, it's Jason."
My heart did a skipping step, and I pressed the phone closer to my ear for a moment. "It's good to hear from you."
"It's good to be heard," he replied, and there was a gentle smile in his voice. Then his tone became serious. "The M.E. report has been filed."
"And?"
"And the cause of death is a single gunshot wound to the heart. They are leaving the topic of accidental versus deliberate open. That cannot be determined."
I sighed. "They have no idea if it was the same caliber bullet as that hunter used?"
"It most likely was, but that doesn't get us very far. Many guns would take a bullet of that caliber. It could have been the hunter's gun – or it could have been a thousand others."
"What do the police think?"
He let out a breath. "Occam's razor is in play here, I think. We have a man dead in the woods with a gunshot wound. We have a hunter in those same woods, shooting a gun. Popovich heard no other shot, and saw no other person, since his arrival at dawn. Finally, we can find no real motive." He shrugged. "The police are leaning toward a tragic accident; some sort of a bizarre ricochet."
"Maybe he was shot elsewhere?"
"No, the M.E. says he was shot in that gulley and died instantly, right there."
I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. "So Popovich should have heard if there was another gunshot. Unless John was killed before dawn?"
I could almost hear him shaking his head. "The M.E. puts time of death about eleven in the morning. We have several witnesses who drove past the entrance around that time frame, and the only car there was Popovich's."
"How did John get there, then?"
"Apparently his house is only two miles from the woods. His son says that he often liked to go there to think and relax. It wouldn't have been that unusual for him."
I shook my head. It just didn't feel right. "Without any bright colors on him?" I prodded. "In the middle of hunting season?"
"I know, it does seem odd," he agreed. "But still, odd enough to invent some sort of a ninja-assassin killer?"
When he put it that way, it did seem rather far-fetched.
My car started up over the Jamestown bridge and I looked down on the tiny island before me. "Now it's barely a speed bump," I murmured.
"What?"
"Crossing Jamestown," I explained. "I imagine in centuries past that it was a fairly long process, to get a ferry first onto Jamestown and then off on the other side. Now you barely notice you're on the island at all."
The car touched down on the island, and almost immediately came the signs about the fast lane for the upcoming bridge on the other side. "I bet I'm across in under four minutes."
"Heading to Newport?"
"Yes, to Zelda's Café. A birthday dinner with my mom and stepdad."
"I'll let you go, then," he offered. "Have a pleasant evening. Try to put this all aside, at least for a few hours."
The road turned a corner and the bridge stretched out before me, sparkling with tiny white lights as if it had been laced with Christmas tree decorations. "I'm on the other side already," I reported. "I wonder if the Jamestown residents would prefer the state tunnel over this road entirely, so we zoom through without disturbing their peace."
"Maybe they would," he agreed, a smile in his voice. "Have fun, Morgan."
"Good night," I chuckled, and with a click he was gone.
* * *
Zelda's was a small restaurant, the right half a rowdy bar with exuberant locals, the left half a nautically themed upscale dining area. Its walls were decorated with navy-blue stripes interlaced with white, and drawings of clipper ships added an interesting visual appeal. I noticed the Enterprise as I entered, and thought with a smile how that name had graced so many different vessels over the years. Just that morning I had heard from a friend who lived in New York City; he had still not regained power from Sandy and decided off-the-cuff to abandon home for a week's cruise. The Norwegian Gem had passed an aircraft carrier in the harbor, and my friend had enjoyed viewing the shuttle Enterprise which was housed on its deck. Apparently the Enterprise should have been covered for security reasons, but the hurricane had ruthlessly stripped away its protective grey shield.
My mom and stepfather were waiting for me. I exchanged warm hugs with them before we were led to our table. My mother was shorter than me, with neatly trimmed short, dark hair and a warm smile. My stepfather, Frank, was just slightly taller than her, and his Italian heritage shone through in his olive skin and aquiline nose.
"It's always good to see you," my mother welcomed as we settled down at the corner table. She turned to the waitress. "A bottle of Prosecco to start," she ordered. We glanced over the prix fixe menu, a staple of Restaurant Week in Newport.
Her mouth turned up in a smile. "I bet I can guess what you'll have," she teased gently. "Tuna appetizer, swordfish, and chocolate mousse."
I scanned the entries and nodded. "That's it exactly," I agreed. "Everything looks good, though."
"Did I tell you we saw a cougar in our yard a few weeks ago?" she asked, nodding as the waitress came over to pour out the bubbly. We gave our orders and the menus were swept up.
"Are you sure?" I asked. "I thought there was some controversy over whether cougars were really roaming around in Connecticut."
Frank leaned over. "It certainly looked like one," he confirmed. "We googled photos of cougars, and the sloped back and tufted ears were exactly what we saw. I saw a similar creature a few months before that, too, when driving back from Waterbury. A group of deer burst out on the road, ahead of me, and, behind them, a cougar was giving chase. The cougar pulled up to let my car go past, and then it set off after them again."
My mom gave a shake of her head. "There is a man on the commuter bus I take in to Hartford who is convinced that the state is responsible for the cougars," she informed us. "Some sort of a conspiracy. He feels the wildlife experts brought in cougars and mountain lions in order to curb the deer population, and now the state doesn't want to acknowledge it for liability reasons."
"If the cougars were endangered, maybe we should be pleased to have them back, to fill the web in properly again," I mused. "Sort of like the raccoons."
"Was there a problem with raccoons?" asked my mother. "We had a female raccoon which visited our yard quite regularly, and to our delight she then began coming in with her young kits. But then suddenly they all vanished. We wondered if one of our neighbors had had them trapped and relocated."
"It wasn't that long ago that raccoons were nearly wiped out by a disease similar to rabies," I explained. "We are lucky that they are rebounding."
Her brow creased. "Are raccoons really necessary to nature?"
I gave a soft shrug. "Everything has its place. If we lose a mid-level predator like a raccoon, it could cause the larger animals to starve. And, at the same time, it could cause the smaller rodents to blossom out of control."
The appetizers arrived, and I looked down at my tuna circles. They had a crispy tempura-style edging, and were served with a semi-sweet gyoza-style sauce. I would have preferred them straight up, with soy sauce, but this was an interesting enough variation. "Sort of like the bats," I added.
Frank was enjoying his clam chowder. "What about the bats?"
I took a bite of my tuna. Yummy. I turned to him, putting down my fork.
"Bats hibernate in caves in the winter. Recently, the bats have been infected by a white fungus. It interrupts their hibernation cycle and vast numbers of them have died." I gave a wave with my hand. "The scientists cannot figure out how to stop it and, if we lose the bats, we could end up with serious mosquito overpopulation."
His brows creased in worry. "I've always liked bats. I did not realize they hibernated in groups like that."
"At least some types of them do," I offered. "We get small groups of them passing through Sutton in the fall, on their way to wherever they hibernate. I always wish them well."
He nodded, then took another sip of his soup. "This is some of the best clam chowder I've ever tasted," he praised, smiling to us. "I think because it's Rhode Island clam chowder. It seems the Boston and New England varieties are creamier, while this is more brothy. It's just right."
My mom patted him on the arm fondly. "I'm so glad you are enjoying it, dear." She turned to me. "How are you doing, with the events of the past few days?"
It was if a shadow had been lurking in the corner of the room, and it suddenly billowed into a threatening pose. "I'm still coming to grips with it," I admitted. "But it seems that it may have just been a tragic accident."
My mother's eyes were warm and kind. "Everything happens for a reason," she commented. "What have you learned about him so far?"
"That he was engaging, and that he brought joy to many people," I related. "He was preparing to publish his memoirs."
Her eyes lit up. "You're a writer," she pointed out.
A warm kindle began within me, one which glowed with a golden light. "I am," I agreed, hope buoying me.
"You could write a biography for him," she encouraged.
It felt perfect. It was as if I had been staring at a jigsaw puzzle and suddenly a piece I had not seen on the table had been handed to me. "Yes, I could."
She raised her Prosecco, and we brought up our own. "To completing the story," she toasted, and the room echoed with the soft ring of glass on glass.
* * *
I had barely made it onto the Christmas tree bridge and the first straight-away of my ride home before I was finding him in my recent calls list and pushing the button.
"Hello?" Jason answered.
My voice echoed with joy. "I know what I'm going to do."
"And what is that?" he asked, a smile coming across the speaker.
"I'll write his biography for him," I revealed in triumph. "I will finish what he began; what meant so much to him."
There was a pause, and then his voice came, slow and steady. "That's kind of you to offer; I can see his death touched you deeply."
"He deserves to have his story told," I expanded. "I will ask his son for permission, of course. But I feel as if I'm involved, somehow, and this seems right to me. I hope it will bring me the closure I'm seeking."
"His funeral is tomorrow, with the burial at the Sutton Cemetery."
"I know; I intend to be there."
"So do I. I suppose we will meet there?"
My heart warmed at the idea, and I nodded, although of course he could not see the motion. "Yes," I added out loud. "I would like that."
"Then it's a date," he confirmed, and I smiled at the thought of a date at a cemetery. I supposed that all life was cyclical, with its beginnings and endings and rebirths.
My car rumbled onto the Jamestown bridge and I chuckled. "I blinked, and I missed Jamestown again," I teased him.
He gave a low laugh. "Those islanders may build their tunnel yet and be completely free of all you interlopers," he warned.
"I wouldn't blame them in the least."
The road stretched out before me, dark and deep, but I put aside the allure of keeping him on the phone the whole way. "Until tomorrow," I offered.
"I look forward to it," he agreed, and he was gone.