Aspen Allegations - A Sutton Massachusetts Mystery

by Kasi Blake

  Chapter 11

  Winter had released its icy grip for a day. It must have been nearly sixty degrees as I pulled into the parking lot at Purgatory Chasm – and winced. The place was absolutely crawling with people. There were family groups grilling up burgers by picnic tables, young lovers walking hand in hand, and two elderly women in teal sweats walking a pair of dachshunds.

  Jason was waiting for me on a rocky outcropping, a navy-blue flannel shirt tucked neatly into his jeans. He smiled as he stood, coming over to join me.

  A trio of youngsters nearly barreled into me as they scrambled toward the mouth of the ravine. I shook my head. “Isn’t it Monday?”

  “Veterans Day was yesterday,” he pointed out with a twinkle in his eye. “They’ve all got the day off today.”

  I had completely forgotten. One of the down-sides of working from home is that I often lose track of when working-day folks have their days of freedom. I had gotten so used to weekdays being the quiet, restful days in the parks that it hadn’t occurred to me it could be otherwise.

  Purgatory is a granite chasm with walls reaching up to eighty feet high. The chasm was formed when, during the last Ice Age, glacial meltwater broke through a massive ice dam and rushed down through Sutton. Today it was densely peppered with people, as if a picnicker’s sandwich had been left behind in a field and discovered by a ravenous army of ants.

  I shrugged in acceptance. “Well, we definitely won’t be going down into the chasm proper today.” I smiled at him. “Shall we do Charley’s Loop?”

  He turned left, and we walked past the large, concrete-floored dining area with its scattering of wooden picnic tables beneath an open-sided, beamed ceiling. “Don’t want to have children underfoot while making your way down the crevasse?” he asked.

  A pair of young teenage girls strolled toward us, garbed in bright pink halter tops and shorts so tiny they could barely be called underwear. I waited until they passed before responding. “I find it incredibly stressful to go in when it’s crowded,” I admitted. “Not because of the challenge of the climb, but because of the carelessness of the others around me. The chasm is dangerous. There are jagged rocks and deep, narrow crevices littered all down its length.”

  My brow creased. “The last time I was through there, I saw a woman in her early twenties carrying a newborn in a chest wrap. A newborn! Just one slip of the mother’s feet and the baby would have been crushed. It makes absolutely no sense how little care some adults have for the children they’re responsible for. So every step I take becomes tense. I’m on constant alert to catch the arm of a tumbling college student in clogs, or to run for help if something more serious happens.”

  He nodded as we made our way down the path. The forest floor was carpeted with shades of brown, primarily red oak, white oak, and maple leaves. The deciduous trees had long since relinquished their robes, leaving behind only the fluffy pine and sturdy juniper to provide a rich green backdrop to the view.

  His voice was rich in my ear. “The chasm does have a large warning sign at its entrance advising people of the dangers,” he pointed out.

  “Of course the sign is there; one would think that half the visitors aren’t able to read,” I sighed. “People head in there with flip-flops, or high heels, and then they wonder why the ambulance makes such frequent visits. It’s as if they expect, if they’re allowed to go in there, that it must therefore be absolutely safe. They figure if there was any danger that someone would have put up a fence to keep them away.”

  We came around a bend and heard high laughter off to the right. I looked over and drew to a stop. A group of teenaged boys and girls were jostling for position on a high outcrop jutting out over the chasm’s depths.

  Jason’s brow creased. “Are you all right?”

  “I was here last July fourth,” I murmured. “I was just past this point when a man, standing on those very rocks, fell eighty feet to his death.” I pursed my lips. “It was barely four months ago. Have they forgotten already? Are they so sure they’re invincible?”

  He rested a hand on my shoulder. Warmth eased through me, unwrapping the knot which had settled into my back. After a moment I nodded and we set into motion again.

  Purgatory had a different kind of beauty as winter set in. Gone were the delightful scatterings of mushrooms in gold, crimson, and darkest violet. Gone were the flittering butterflies, the scarlet tanagers dipping low across the path as they chased in search of a dragonfly. Instead, with the rich canopy of maple and aspen gone, one could now see through the layers of trees to the rocks and clefts beyond. New landscapes were revealed in their stark, quiet glory.

  I stopped by one rock, almost a curved sandwich shape with two distinct layers, a beautiful camouflage pattern of lichen speckled along its face. “I wonder if there are a variety of lichens to be found here, just as there are many types of wildflowers or mushrooms.”

  “We can certainly find out when we get you home,” he agreed. “It would be a fun project for the winter.”

  We were arriving at the back end of Purgatory now, and we came across a dozen family members standing at the cross-roads, pondering which way to go. There were at least four children under the age of six. I gave a silent prayer that they would take one of the outer trails and not decide to go up through the chasm proper. At last they turned right, onto an easier path, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I moved straight ahead. “Let’s take the path that leads us toward Sutton Forest,” I suggested. “It’s the least traveled one here; we can see how the frog pond is doing.”

  He smiled at that. “I’m afraid all the frogs are long since tucked into the mud,” he suggested, but he came to my side willingly, slowing as we approached the wooden bridge that crossed over a pool of water.

  I breathed in deeply as we looked down into the reflections. Yes, there was the log to the left, often holding three or four frogs in a sunny streak of light. To the right were rocks they enjoyed warming themselves on. But Jason was right. There had been both last week’s nor’easter and the cooler temperatures to contend with. Those poor frogs would have been sad indeed if they had not long since snuggled into a deep bed of mud. There was no doubt that the ground was fairly frozen by now, resistant to any efforts of small webbed feet to dig a shelter within.

  He looked over at me. “Did you know that frogs have a type of anti-freeze in their blood that slows their respiration down to barely registering when they hibernate? That’s how they make it through the long winter. Their bodies are barely alive. They simply hold still, patient, waiting for spring’s warmth to reach down to them again.”

  Suddenly I could see the image in crystal clarity. A sense of waiting, the weight of mud and earth against one’s eyes, not breathing, not feeling anything. Suspended in time, hoping against hope that someday there would be the softest of sensations, the minutest hint of warmth …

  He turned to me with concern, his thumb rising to my cheek and brushing away a tear. “Morgan, what is it?”

  His body was so warm, so close, and the last thin threads of my reserves melted away. I leaned in against his sturdy chest; his arms came up around me as if I had always belonged within them. The tender impression of his lips settled on my forehead, and a rich heat blossomed through me from that point, drifting down into the furthest reaches of my soul.

  My voice was hoarse, and it took a second try before I was able to get words out. “I’m just so glad you found me,” I whispered.

  One of his hands gently stroked against my hair, and I looked up at him. His eyes were deep brown and smoky. His voice held a roughness. “I have been looking for you for a long time.”

  His lips moved down, I drew him in, and he was gentle and strong and heart-achingly tender all at once. I closed my eyes and became lost in the sensation. He smelled of musk and cedar and leather. It was a long while before he pulled back and looked down at me, his eyes full on mine.

  I drew in another deep breath. “Cedar,” I sighed, a light te
ase in my voice. “I would think you would wear a pine scent so you could weave in and out of the trees like a deer, or a Nipmuc scout.”

  “I could wear juniper,” he answered with a smile, his eyes not leaving mine. “Plenty of juniper here in Purgatory.”

  “None in the Sutton Forest, though,” I pointed out. “At least I’ve never seen any on the main trails. It’s all pine in there, on the evergreen side.”

  A memory flitted at the corners of my awareness and I stopped, clearing my mind of other thoughts. His brow creased and his eyes focused more closely on my face. “What is it?”

  “That day we found John’s body,” I murmured, glancing left, down the trail that led across to the Sutton Forest. “I remember the rich scents of the forest just as I reached the ravine. I was marveling at how full they were – the pine and the juniper.”

  He gave a short shake of the head. “That part of the trail doesn’t have any juniper on it,” he corrected. “We were in there for days after the body was found. I am sure of it.”

  “But I know what I smelt,” I insisted. “Juniper has that distinctive aroma to it. I would know it anywhere.”

  He glanced down the path for a moment, lost in thought. “So why would you have smelled it near the body?” He gave another shake of his head. “The toxicology reports came back clean. He had not been poisoned; not even been drinking.”

  I gave a shrug. “It had been a fine day; maybe he had been in Purgatory before he went over to the Sutton forest?”

  “Or maybe the smell had not been from him, but rather from whoever killed him,” Jason pointed out. “If it had been on the body, surely someone would have noted it and put it on the report. We were looking for every detail we could at the time. Maybe you happened to move next to a tree that the shooter had rested on.”

  I sighed. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It could have been a wild flight of fancy, that I even thought I smelled it in the first place. Maybe it was just an unusual mushroom that I hadn’t encountered before.”

  “Still, we should keep it in mind,” counseled Jason. “You never know what might be important.”

  “As you say,” I agreed. “We certainly have little enough to go on as it is.”

  A cloud drifted across the sun and I shivered. He pulled me close for a long minute. I was sliding my hands along his hips toward his back when a bright burst of laughter came from behind us. I stepped back quickly as yet another group of eight or nine children barreled down the path, pursued by a pair of weary adults.

  I turned back toward Purgatory. At its base we veered left, starting the easy climb along the second half of Charley’s Loop path. Rectangular yellow blazes cut into trees marked the way, and some intrepid explorer had added an orange letter “G” into the center of each one. Perhaps it was innate in the soul of each human to want to leave their indelible mark on the world.

  A young couple came up behind us and I pulled aside to let them pass. The man was earnestly explaining to the woman that his house had burnt down once and that it had taught him how meaningless physical possessions were. I found the thought echoing in my head long after they had moved on. It was appealing, almost, the thought of all the flotsam and jetsam of life being swept away, of starting with a clean slate, filling it only with the things most important.

  “My father said, once, that he wished his condo would burn down,” I murmured to Jason, caught up in the thought.

  “Oh, did he?” he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice. “Was he going through a rough divorce?”

  I laughed out loud at that, surprised by the wildly different interpretation, and he turned to gaze at me for a long moment, a glow of warmth coming to his face as he watched me. Then he put out a hand, and I took it, twining my fingers into his.

  “No, no,” I explained after a moment. “I think he was relishing the idea of simplicity. Of shaking loose the myriad meaningless things we gather in life and settling himself back into what was important.”

  “That I do understand,” he agreed. Together we moved up through the dappled sunlight, the golden afternoon sun creating leopard’s spots against the twisting roots and slate-grey rocks.

  We came up to my car, and he glanced at it before returning his gaze to me. “What did you have planned for the rest of the afternoon?”

  “Just some chores and work,” I stated. “Did you want to drive around for a while?”

  He smiled. “I would indeed. I should take a glance at Whitinsville pond and also see what cars are at Sutton Forest.”

  I moved over to his truck; in a moment we were on the road heading north. I pointed as we passed a plaque embedded high in the rock face right along Purgatory Road.

  “They really should put the plaque in a better place,” I commented to him. “That sign commemorates how the Dudley family donated numerous acres of land to the Sutton Forest. Their son John H. Dudley was shot down in Sicily in 1943, during World War II.”

  “A worthy gift to commemorate, especially with this being Veterans Day,” he commented.

  I nodded. “But that plaque can barely be read from the ground, and with the road being so narrow here nobody ever walks along to be able to see it,” I pointed out. “It’s completely wasted where it is. There should be a sign among the actual hiking trails so that all those people enjoying the natural gifts around them know who to thank.”

  “I agree.”

  I looked ahead, and my eyes lit up. “Oh, can we stop at the duck pond?” He nodded. We pulled off to the right where a small pond edged the road, marking the far boundary of the Sutton Forest network. Beyond this began the residential homes and driveways.

  “Oh look, two males and a female,” I called out, spotting the mallards at the back of the pond. I clambered out of the truck, pulling my camera from my pocket. I took a few photos, then walked along the edge of the pond, marveling at how low the water was. In the spring it would be spilling over its banks, nearly crossing the road in its attempt to move downstream. For now, the water was several feet below the tufts of grass that edged the area.

  Jason came up alongside me. “No frogs here, either.”

  “Usually this is a prime frog-spotting location,” I agreed. “Still, at least we have the three ducks. Do you know, all afternoon long, this is the first sign of any wildlife I’ve seen? Throughout our whole walk there was not one squirrel, not one insect, not one bird calling out.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched up. “There were certainly lots of voices raised high,” he countered.

  I nodded. “Exactly why I prefer weekdays,” I stated. “Real weekdays,” I clarified.

  “You do have to share your forest, you know,” he teased. “It is here for everyone.”

  “That it is,” I nodded. “Holidays are a perfect time for families to come out, race around, and scream their joy out at the top of their lungs. I appreciate whole-heartedly that the kids are not glued to TV screens trying to blast holes in zombies.” I smiled. “And it just means, if my personal aim is serenity, that I choose to visit at the quieter times. There’s plenty of forest for everyone.”

  “I imagine that’s why you’re not in the Sutton Forest today, as well,” he added, a sparkle in his eyes.

  “Hopefully none of the families are in there,” I agreed with warmth. “The hunters have their own time, and since their time is limited, I don’t begrudge them.”

  We climbed back into the truck and once again we were in motion. We drove a loop around, turning left at the blinking light on Central Turnpike and pulling in at the entrance to Sutton Forest. There was a lone car parked there; Jason made a note of it before we moved on. Down we headed beneath 146, past a cloud of bright-pink fall foliage. Then we were curving around Whitinsville Pond. I smiled as we passed a pair of swans, watching as they dug their heads enthusiastically in the weeds, looking for some sort of tasty treat.

  “You know, I bet to them a mucky fish is as mouth-wateringly delicious as a filet mignon with béarnaise sauce would be to
us.”

  “You’re probably right,” he agreed with a low laugh. “And to a robin, that early morning earthworm is the sweetest ambrosia in a neatly wrapped package.”

  He turned to look at me. “Does that mean you’re interested in dinner?”

  I shook my head reluctantly. “I do have things to get done tonight,” I demurred. “And the next two days I’m busy as well, with friends. But if you’re free on Thursday –”

  “Thursday it is,” he agreed promptly, nodding. “It’s a date.”

  “Is it?” I asked, my cheeks warming.

  He put out a hand, and I took it in mine, twining my fingers between his. He was silent for a long minute, running his thumb gently along the top of my hand.

  “It is,” he said at last, and the sound of his voice warmed me to my very core.