Aspen Allegations - A Sutton Massachusetts Mystery

Chapter 13

Yard raking was an eternal, Sisyphean-style task in Sutton in the autumn. It seemed like every time I got a quadrant of the lawn clean, a fresh breeze wafted through, shaking down yet another shower of leaves from the sky. But the air was crisp and clean, the world smelled of earth and leaf, and I loved watching the chickadees do their swooping flight in to the feeder.

Besides, with what people paid for a gym membership, I was getting my exercise for free. And I had the added benefit of creating fine compost for next year's garden.

My phone rang just as I stepped back into the house for some tea, and I picked it up. "Hello?"

A woman's voice came warm over the phone. "Just checking in that we're still on for our virtual book club in two days."

I smiled. "Hello to you too, Simone. Yes, absolutely. I'm nearly done with An American Tragedy. Thank you for agreeing to switch out the book of the month on such short notice."

"Anne, Kathy, and I didn't mind at all," Simone assured me. "And with what you have going on over there, it seemed like a good choice!"

"I'll have Skype all set up and ready to go," I assured her. I chuckled. "And, as fate might have it, I'm actually seeing Kathy in person tonight. But I promise we won't talk about the book. We'll leave that for the group."

"You'd better not," teased Simone. "Our book time is sacred!"

"All right then, I've got to finish this raking before I head out. Talk to you in a few days!"

* * *

I pulled into the dark parking lot at The Oregon Club, sighing in resignation at the cars jammed side-by-side. It seemed like everyone had come up with the idea to head into rural Ashland on this late-autumn Wednesday night. There was not one free spot in the entire dirt rectangle. Finally I wedged myself in against the main road, hoping that for the next few hours the drivers kept their wits about them and did not stray into the gutter while texting an important message to a long-lost girlfriend.

A sign by the door said to ring the bell, so I did, then headed in. My friend Kathy was already waiting for me in the narrow hallway. A few years older than me, she offered a warm, gracious hug. We had known each other since our days at Worcester Polytech, over twenty-five years ago. At the time, having women attend an engineering school had been something of a novelty. Nowadays the college had cancelled their women-in-engineering support program as being unnecessary. How times were changing.

A waiter dressed in black arrived and showed us over to a corner table in the main dining area. The Oregon Club had once been a speak-easy, in decades long past, and the establishment clearly thrilled in that connection. The quiet building had begun life as a residential home and the original room layout was still plainly visible. The walls were gently moss colored, while the dark-wood tables sported white cloths with runners of earth-toned, textured fabric. On one wall hung a huge stag's head sporting sunglasses and a dark hat.

We ordered splits of Mionetto's Prosecco, then got to perusing the menu. So much of it looked delicious. We finally settled on carpaccio and a goat cheese dish to start. Kathy ordered "The Steak" while I decided on duck breast. The waiter headed off to fetch our items. In short order we were clinking our flutes together in celebration of friendship.

She took a sip, admiring the bubbles, and then leant forward. "How are things going with your ranger?"

"Today is exactly two weeks since we met," I murmured, looking down into the thin stream of bubbles which ascended through the pale amber liquid. Two weeks. Two weeks since my eyes had risen, calmly, quietly, and then beheld a sight which would change everything. There was a line now in my life, dividing the period before I had seen John Dixon's body and what had followed.