Read Aspen Allegations - A Sutton Massachusetts Mystery Page 8

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  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.