Chapter 3
Ramshorn Pond stretched out before me in its autumnal splendor, gently fluffy clouds drifting across a sky the color of a Civil War silken ball-gown. Enough of the trees clung stubbornly to their foliage to give a dappled vermilion-gold effect to the edge of the water. Matthew’s lawn eased down a slope to the banks of the pond. His wooden dock stood empty; the pontoon boat had been pulled out and winterized weeks ago. The water level had been lowered in preparation for the coming season of ice, and I could clearly see where the worn stone steps allowed one, in warmer months, to walk straight into the shallow depths.
I turned from the landscape and moved toward his door. The entrance was to the side of his two-story home, with the back offering a large porch overlooking the pond. I had sat there many happy summer afternoons, watching the hummingbirds flit at the feeders, relaxing after a day kayaking around the edges of the pond. Matthew and Joan offered warm conversation to go with access to their bucolic corner of the world.
The door was pulled open promptly to my knock, and Matthew stepped forward to wrap me in a warm embrace. He was in his late sixties, his blue eyes sharp and attentive within a face that showed the wear of age. A bit taller than me, he stayed in good shape with an active life.
“How are you doing, Morgan?” he asked as he stepped back to draw me in. The corners of his eyes creased in worry as he looked me over. “You look stretched thin.”
I nodded, plunking down the hemp bag overflowing with computer gear. “I am not sleeping well,” I admitted. “I suppose it is to be expected.”
“You take care of yourself,” he cautioned. “Come, have a seat.”
Joan’s voice called out from the kitchen. “Would you like some tea? The herbals I have are mint, chamomile, and raspberry.”
“Raspberry would be lovely,” I answered, settling down into their fluffy couch. I always enjoyed coming to Matthew and Joan’s home. It was comfortable in a New England sort of way, with bulging couches one could sink into, a sturdy wooden table within easy reach, and a décor that spoke of nature and beloved family. And then, of course, there were the large windows which overlooked Ramshorn Pond. The beauty that surrounded them brought solace to my soul.
Joan moved into the room carrying a burgundy mug. “Here you go, my dear,” she offered, placing it on a coaster before me. Joan was the perfect match for Matthew – warm, compassionate, with a quick mind and a lively heart. She sat down across from me. “Would you like anything to eat?”
I shook my head. “I just stopped by to drop off some spare parts for Matthew,” I deferred. “A few power supplies, two DVD drives, an old graphics card, and a router. I thought he might find them useful for the systems he builds for the seniors.”
Matthew nodded with a smile. “Indeed I shall. Your donations are always greatly appreciated.”
He paused, giving me space, and I sipped my tea. Usually he swung by my house to pick up the odds and ends I had for him, to save me the drive. He settled down next to Joan, patient, waiting.
I looked down at the warm tea in my hands, watching the tendrils of stream as they drifted up from the dark surface. At last I spoke. “Did you two know him?”
Matthew looked at me with kindness. “Yes, we did,” he stated. “He was quite popular at the senior center. Always coming and going with a new story to tell. The folks there have been talking of nothing else since we heard the news yesterday afternoon.”
Joan’s eyes sparkled. “He was something of a lothario,” she added. “The ratio at the senior center is nearly ten to one in favor of the men. John certainly took advantage of those odds, and delighted in flirting with every female within sight.” She blushed a soft pink. “Sometimes the main hall was called ‘John’s harem,’ with how warmly he was greeted there.”
I thought back to the photo of him on the Telegram website, of the joy in his eyes, the smile on his lips. “So he had a good life?”
Matthew’s voice was warm. “He did indeed,” he agreed. “His son lived nearby, he fished weekly with his best friend Adam, and he had a large group of friends. He was even working on his dream project – writing his memoirs.”
“Oh?” I asked, intrigued. “About his senior center dalliances?”
Joan laughed merrily. “Oh, no,” she countered. “If he started in on that, there would be scandals! No, I imagine it was about his days in Vietnam and his travels after that. He spent years doing political work of some sort all over southeast Asia.”
“He was drafted?” I asked.
Matthew shook his head. “He was one of the odd ones,” he countered. “He actually enlisted. And it was even stranger, because he was merry.”
My brow wrinkled in confusion. “I suppose it was normally the more serious ones who went off to war.”
His eyes twinkled and he shook his head again. “No, no, I mean Merry, as in one of the hobbits,” he corrected. “He and his three friends were a few years ahead of me in school, but they cut quite a figure in the late sixties. I suppose in earlier decades they might have styled themselves as the Four Musketeers, or even the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, depending on their nature. But these were the sixties, and we were rebelling against Sputnik and bomb shelters and a TV in every house.”
He sat back against the couch, remembering. “They loved Tolkien’s world, even carried around pipes, and had a stodgy old bulldog named Bilbo. They were inseparable. John was Merry, and it seemed every girl in school wanted to be at his side. He had this way about him, even then, a smile that had them melting.”
“So, did they all enlist together?”
He shook his head. “No, I think Eileen’s death shook them apart. John enlisted. Charles and Richard went off to college, and Sam Sares stayed behind to work on his father’s dairy farm. They were all drawn back to Sutton in the end, but I never got the sense that their friendship ever rekindled.”
I looked between the two of them. “Who was Eileen?”
Joan’s voice was soft. “Eileen Hudson,” she expanded. “A lovely girl, with long, straight blonde hair that seemed to come right out of a sixties fashion magazine. She drowned in Lake Singletary during a boating accident. It shook many of us hard, to think that life could end like that for someone our age. After that, several of the boys enlisted and a few couples married rather than wait.”
I nodded in understanding. “I suppose seeing death tends to remind us of how ephemeral life is and to treasure each day.”
My eyes fell on the bag of computer supplies at my side. “So John was going to start writing about all of these things, and then he’s killed?”
Matthew’s eyes sharpened with curiosity. “I thought his death was an accident?”
I pursed my lips in consideration. “The hunter had heard no other shots during the day, and he was absolutely sure that he had never taken a shot in John’s direction. The only three shots he fired were to the north, after a coyote he was tracking.”
Joan’s voice was firm. “I would trust Popovich,” she agreed. “He volunteers with our garden club and he is the most meticulous man I have ever seen. Every seedling is placed at the perfect depth, in soil the ideal pH. He leaves nothing to chance.”
Matthew looked at me. “Have they found the bullet?”
I shook my head. “The M.E.s said it went right through him, and they had not found it when we left that night. I suppose I could check with Jason …”
“Jason, he was the ranger in the woods?”
I nodded. “Yes. I am very glad he was there. He was … steady.”
I gave myself a shake. Suddenly I wanted to be back home, wrapped by my own things. “I really should get going,” I stated, taking a final drink on my tea. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Matthew stood and emptied the items out of my bag, handing it back to me. “You are always welcome, if you want to talk, or just look out at the pond,” he offered.
“I appreciate that.” I stepped forward to give him a hug, and then Joan. “I just want to be home.”
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My hand was reaching for my cellphone as the door closed behind me.