Aspen Allegations - A Sutton Massachusetts Mystery

Chapter 5

Afternoon brought drifting clouds and blue skies as I drove past the Sutton Senior Center and pulled into an open spot amongst the long row of cars lining the cemetery. The senior center's lot had been full as well, and there were large flocks of dark-coated men and women streaming in. Apparently, John had many admirers who wanted to see him off.

I smiled in contentment, shutting the door of the Forester and snugging my black pea coat tighter around my neck. It was not yet the frozen tundra of December, but autumn was definitely leaving us behind. The air had a crispness to it, and the remaining brown leaves which skittered past me in the breeze had a hard-edged, sharp quality to them.

Jason was waiting for me at the entrance to the cemetery, taller than I had remembered, with a black wool coat and a navy-blue scarf. His eyes caught mine, a rich, dark brown, and they held for a long moment, first with a hint of pleased surprise in them, and then a growing contentment. He stepped forward to offer a hand as I approached.

"Morgan, it is good to see you again." His tanned cheek colored slightly. "Although I would prefer we eventually get together under happier circumstances."

"It looks to be a nice enough day for it, at least," I responded, taking his hand. It was sturdy and warm.

There was a call behind us, and Matthew and Joan approached, the pair bundled up in matching ski parkas. Joan's voice was rich and gentle. "There you are, Morgan. How are you doing?" Her eyes dropped to my neck. "That scarf is lovely."

I moved a hand to touch the soft fabric. "My one indulgence," I admitted. "It was hand knitted by a lovely woman out in the Berkshires who runs her own yoga shop as well as teaching knitting classes. Karen Allen."

Jason looked at me with surprise. "Not the actress?"

I nodded my head. "The very same. When I was young, that scene of her out-drinking and out-fighting the wild men of Tibet was quite inspiring to me. It made me believe that I could hold my own, if I enthusiastically gave it my all."

Matthew's eyes were bright. "And that you do," he agreed.

I turned and looked ahead to where the crowd had gathered. I recognized a group of grey-haired women from the senior center in a huddle. John's friend Adam was at their center, his tan coat glistening in the sun, offering a murmuring of words.

The priest made a motion with his hand, and I glanced up at Jason. "Shall we head in?"

* * *

The service was heart-felt, with the priest offering thoughts on life interspersed with his homily. The casket was lowered, dirt was thrown representationally on top, and friends and family slowly dispersed. Matthew and Joan made their farewells, and yet I found I could not leave. Jason stayed quietly by my side, not saying a word, and I stared down at the grave, lost in thought.

I had found a peace of sorts. My sleep had been even, my yoga practice rich with focus and purpose. John had apparently lived a good life, one full of family and friends, with smiles and good nature. It was a story worth telling. I would at least make my offer, and see what his son had to say.

There was a soft clearing of a throat behind us, and Jason and I turned together. A short, Asian man stood before us, perhaps in his early fifties, with clear, olive skin and gently sloping eyes. His dark hair was neatly cut and he wore an elegant, doe-brown wool coat.

"I do not mean to intrude," he began, his voice gentle. "Did you know him well?"

I shook my head. "I'm afraid not," I admitted. "I never had the privilege of speaking with him."