by Kasi Blake
Chapter 20
We pulled down the narrow driveway of the Publick House Inn and Restaurant in Sturbridge, Massachusetts at one-thirty on the dot. Jason dropped me off by the back entrance, then headed off to park the car while I pressed my way through the crowds to the door. It was only worse inside. Elderly women in thick fur coats, young girls in fluffy fuchsia dresses, and everything in between blocked the way in.
The Publick House could be an absolute maze, but I had been here enough times to have learned its floor-plan. First I wended my way up the stairs, then down the long corridor toward the front of the building. A jog right to move along the time-warped floorboards, passing the large, open reception area often used by weddings. Then a left-hand turn into a narrow alley which seemed to be a covered-over passageway connecting the old building to the slightly-less-old annex. Finally, a right into the inn proper with its reception desk and main dining area.
I spotted my father and his girlfriend, Zelda, sitting on a dense, stuffed couch in the crowded waiting area. I wriggled my way through and gave them each a hug.
My father smiled at me. “It’s good to see you.” He was in his mid-sixties, his tall, lean frame still retaining much of the tone it’d had during his volleyball years. His once dense curls had become sparser over the years, and had shaded from dark brown into a soft grey. “They wouldn’t check us in until everyone had arrived.”
I looked around at the mob. “No wonder,” I agreed. I turned to his girlfriend. “How are you doing?”
“We’re retired, so every day is much like the last,” she teased. Her grey hair was cut close in a short style and her frame held a comfortable weight on it.
“I’ll go get us set,” I offered, and after a few minutes of working my way through the crowd I got into line for the maître d’ stand.
The woman took my ticket and glanced at her register book. “Table 804,” she noted, and waved at a young man standing nearby. “Go check on 804,” she called out. He headed into a room behind him and was back in a few minutes.
“They’re still eating dessert,” he reported.
I stepped away from the area. Apparently it was going to be a little while before we were able to get seated. There was a pat on my shoulder and Jason was there.
He smiled at me. “I heard. That gives us time to talk a bit, then.”
“Yes, indeed,” I agreed, giving his hand a squeeze. We worked our way through the crowd, finally returning to my father.
I was never sure which way introductions were supposed to be made, so I took my best shot. “Dad, I would like you to meet Jason,” I stated. The two men shook hands. I indicated Zelda. “And this is dad’s girlfriend, Zelda,” I continued. Another set of hands shaking.
My father looked Jason over. “So I hear you work for the forest service,” he said, intrigued. “Does that make you sort of a warden, watching for people shooting out of season?”
Jason nodded. “Certainly that’s part of it, but mostly it’s about helping injured hikers or people who have wandered off the trail. We also do regular trail maintenance – chopping away trees which have fallen across the path, trimming back bushes, and that sort of thing. Sometimes we run educational programs.”
My dad smiled. “When I was younger I used to take Morgan on long hikes along the Nipmuc trail in Connecticut. We would look for old homesteads and foundations. Sometimes we’d find a graveyard deep in the woods and make rubbings from the stones.”
“It’s amazing what you can find in the woods,” Jason agreed. “This land has been used by our ancestors for almost four hundred years, and of course by its native inhabitants for much longer than that. We come across old graves, remnants of ancient foundations, arrowheads, buckles, and much more.”
My dad’s eyes brightened. “So, what is your heritage?”
Jason rubbed a hand on his chin. “Well, on my mother’s side …”
I sat back to listen. I had helped my father enough with genealogy over the years to know this conversation could go on for hours. Jason’s family, like many in these parts, had an intermingling of just about everything. Some English, some German, some Native American, a smidgen of Irish, a dash of French, and of course there were always the mystery lines you could never quite pin down.
It was just after two before our name was finally called and we were ushered into the back card room. I was happy for the quiet. The Publick House was true to its heritage, retaining the plank floors, wood ceilings, and bare walls from its 1771 construction. That meant that the main dining room was often quite loud and hard to hear in. This back room held only four tables and was much quieter than even the reception room. We settled into our chairs. Dad and Jason went merrily back to their genealogy track, with Dad explaining how we connected back to the Oxendine family in North Carolina, part of the Lumbee tribe. On another line we traced to a poet in England.
I glanced around occasionally, but while our waitress came in and out to service the other tables, it took another half hour until we even had our water glasses filled, the apple cider poured, and our order taken. Certainly I understood they were busy, but Thanksgiving here sells out a month in advance. The administration knew exactly how many people were coming and surely they should have been prepared with ample staff and properly spaced out seatings. It seemed that not only had they tried to cram seatings in too close to each other but they hadn’t brought in adequate staff to handle the flow.
Our salads came with the traditional maple dressing along with the cloth-covered basket of bread baked in their very own bakery. Finally, something to eat! I declined eating any bread, but the others selected from the cornbread, sticky-buns, and fresh rolls.
The interruption had finally shaken the two men loose from their genealogy conversation, and Zelda took advantage of the break to lean forward. “I want to hear more about this research you’ve been doing on the man you found in the woods. His name was John?”
I nodded. “We had thought he was accidentally shot by a hunter, but it seems more and more likely it’s murder.”
Her brows creased. “Are you sure you should be poking around in a murder?”
I nudged Jason with my elbow. “I have Jason by my side,” I pointed out. “I doubt someone who could only handle an elderly man by sneaking him into a barely-used corner of the woods would want to take the two of us on in broad daylight. I imagine when we get close that he’ll simply run for it and we can turn the whole matter over to the police.”
She pursed her lips. “Why not just let the police handle it now?”
I gave a soft shrug. “They are doing all they can, of course,” I agreed. “But they still seem to think the death was accidental.”
Her eyes sharpened. “And you think it’s not?”
“There was this drowning back in 1968, in Lake Singletary,” I explained. “I just have this sense it’s related to that somehow. I can’t explain why. According to Jason’s contacts the police don’t agree, so I’ll do my best on my own.”
The waitress came by and replaced our salad plates with our appetizers. My plate sported three pink shrimp with a small pool of cocktail sauce. My father had gotten the same thing. Jason took a spoon and carefully tapped on the crust that had formed on his corn chowder. Zelda took a careful sip of her harvest bisque, then sighed. “Barely lukewarm,” she reported.
“Well, at least we’re eating now,” I pointed out with a chuckle.
She took another sip. “Tell me everything from start to finish. Maybe I can help with a pair of fresh eyes.”
I turned to Jason. “Zelda has her doctorate in psychology,” I explained. “She spent decades providing mentoring and advising services at UConn. She might be able to see something from a different angle.”
Jason smiled. “Sounds good to me,” he agreed. “The more minds we get on this, the better.”
The appetizers were eaten, and I was up to our lunch with Charles when the waitress arrived with our main course. Here was Thanksgiving dinner in class
ic New England style. There was a mound of stuffing, another of mashed potatoes, and yet another of orange squash, layered with thick slabs of turkey and gravy. A silver boat of chunky cranberry sauce was placed at the center of the table.
I smiled widely. “Ah, here we go,” I sighed with pleasure.
This was the one time of year I splurged on less-than-healthy food. There was no doubt that I’d be quite sleepy in under an hour. People used to think it was the tryptophan in turkey which brought on the post-Thanksgiving nap, but studies had since showed that there is not enough tryptophan in turkey to have that kind of effect. Instead, it’s simply the high-carb starches consumed in quantity that put us to sleep.
Luckily I had a designated driver, so I enjoyed every last bite. Still, I couldn’t finish it all and left perhaps a third of it to be wrapped up for a snack later on. I dove back into the story, relating the rest of what we’d been up to during the month of November.
The waitress had come back with boxes for our leftovers by the time I finished. Zelda had templed her fingers and was pondering what I’d told her.
“Certainly it does seem like there were many powerful emotions swirling around Eileen’s death,” she agreed. “Each boy had different perceptions about their role in her life. That makes perfect sense, in terms of how men and women look at relationships.”
I leant forward. “What do you mean?”
“Well, in an evolutionary sense, women look at dating as a long-term project. When they hook up with a guy they need him to stay around for a while. If they get pregnant, that’s a solid two to three years they are in need of assistance before the baby can easily walk on its own. Women tend to be fairly deliberate in making their decision about who to be with and like to keep their options open.”
I smiled at that. “And men?”
She glanced at my father with a twinkle in her eye. “Men, again strictly evolutionarily speaking, can have their fun and then take off. In an ideal world they would get as many women pregnant to guarantee as many offspring as possible. The odds are that at least some portion of those mothers can either raise the kids on their own or find another man to do it with.”
Jason chuckled. “Some of us do like to stick around,” he pointed out.
“Oh yes,” Zelda agreed. “We can all overcome these urges. Men even willingly become celibate, which goes against every drive in their nature.”
My mouth tweaked at that. “Sometimes it doesn’t work very well.”
She nodded in agreement. “I imagine it also has to do with a variety of other factors. Testosterone levels vary from man to man. One man might find it perfectly contenting and serene to be celibate. Another man might find it nearly impossible to last a week under that restriction.”
Zelda looked between us. “Testosterone is also linked to other aggressive traits,” she expanded. “Studies of men in prison find that they tend to have higher levels of testosterone than men outside of prison. So it might be fair to say that a young man’s chance of ending up in prison is in part based on something completely out of his control – his body’s genetic make-up. Certainly he can take anger management classes, meditation classes, and do other things to help him fight the rising tide. But there will always be that fight within him, that drive to be more aggressive than our society permits. It will be a challenge he has to handle daily.”
“Like an extra burden.”
“Exactly,” she agreed. “If two men start their day out, Male One with low testosterone can focus all his energy and brainpower on doing his daily tasks. He can talk with his boss, attend a meeting, and do his assignments with a focused, attentive mind. He can make progress toward his goals.”
She took a sip of her cider. “In comparison, Male Two with high testosterone is going to be spending much of his energy simply keeping his emotions in check. When he meets with his boss, he has to restrain himself from speaking out of turn. At a meeting, he has to struggle to refrain from scolding the co-workers with whom he disagrees. When he’s working on a spreadsheet he’ll have a drive to move, to be active, and by the end of the day he’ll be worn down. There’s only so much a person can do in a day to fight against their nature.”
Desserts finally arrived. Dad had asked for his pecan pie to be pre-packed, and Jason had gotten the apple pie. Zelda and I both went for the chocolate cake. Dad and Zelda had coffee, while Jason and I had tea.
Jason poked at his apple pie in curiosity. “I think this is more like apple pudding,” he teased, then took a bite. “Yup. The slices pretty much dissolve in my mouth.”
“Well, I’m quite pleased with my chocolate cake,” I countered with a smile. “This is absolutely perfect.”
He grinned widely. “Well, with the amount of turkey you ate, I’m guessing that you won’t be able to finish that cake. So I’m sure I’ll have a chance to find out.”
“O-ho, is that a challenge?” I asked with a chuckle.
He was right, of course, and I finally gave in about two-thirds of the way through. I handed over the plate, then turned back to Zelda.
“How do you feel the testosterone issue might apply to our situation?”
“It’s the shooting,” she pointed out. “There are so many ways to kill a person. You said that John left his home open for people to come and go. Someone could quite easily have slipped new pills into his pill bottle or a commonly available poison into something in his kitchen. It would have been challenging for the murderer to be identified, if the poisoning was ever detected. In addition, the murderer could be far away when the actual death occurred.”
I pondered this. “Maybe the murderer hoped the shooting would be seen as a hunting accident. That is, after all, what they’re calling it.”
She shook her head. “The only reason the police are considering that is they have no other choice,” she mused. “A planned murder would have presented itself with a neatly wrapped solution, so there was no question.”
She took another bite of cake. “No, I think this was a crime of anger and passion. Someone wanted to pull that trigger, to feel the explosion of the bullet, to see the look on John’s face when he was shot.”
“And that points to higher testosterone?”
“Not absolutely, of course, but I would take it into consideration.” She held my gaze. “For example, Charles the banker. You said he avoided you for over a week because he didn’t want to face the past?”
“Yes, that was him.”
“Well, then, he doesn’t seem the type to want to confront John and shoot him face to face,” Zelda stated. “He would be much more likely to go the poison route. He’d want to be as far away as possible when it happened. He’d probably enjoy the planning part and the idea that everything was neatly taken care of.”
“All right, I see that makes sense,” I agreed. “So how about Sam or Richard?”
She finished off her last bite of cake. “Sam seemed to have a temper when he stormed off from the restaurant. That shows a person who is willing to take strong action when necessary. So it might be him. But what would his motive be?”
I pondered this. “Well, the others went off to build experience and strength elsewhere. All Sam had was the reputation of his farm and his standing in the local community. What if John was going to publish something that might risk it all – something he did that would turn the community against him?”
Zelda thought about this. “Like …?”
Jason finished off the last of my cake. “Well, what if Sam had gotten Eileen pregnant and forced her to get an abortion because he wasn’t ready to start a family yet? What if he still held out one last hope for escape from the farmer’s life?”
Zelda nodded. “That might do it,” she agreed. “All his friends and family would be shocked. The thought that Sam had done that to such a beloved member of the community could resonate strongly, even now.
I looked between them. “All right, so Sam seems to have the temperament and we can imagine a scenario that would cause him to do
it. How about Richard?”
Zelda put a finger to her lips. “The lawyer? It sounds like he’s done a good job over the years of putting a refined veneer over his passions. However, I’ve met few lawyers who were both successful and timid. I would have to guess that he has great fires within him and he has trained himself to focus them with precision.”
I nodded. “I got that sense too. I wouldn’t want to cross him.”
Jason leant in. “And the same type of scenario would be just as threatening for him,” he pointed out. “His reputation is founded on his solid ethics. If he was found to be doing unethical things it might not look good to the crowd at the country club.”
I sat back. “And the missing money?”
Jason glanced around. “Wasn’t Eileen’s sister supposed to be working here today? Maybe she has some insight into that.”
I rubbed my forehead with my hand. “I had completely forgotten about her,” I admitted. “However, the restaurant is a madhouse. We are barely getting our own service and I’m sure the other waitresses are just as frazzled. We might do better to try to meet with her off-hours on another day.”
Dad nodded in agreement. “It might not hurt to ask at the desk to see what her hours are,” he pointed out. “Are we ready?”
I stood. “Yes, indeed – I am both over-full and exhausted.”
The main lobby was only half-stuffed with waiting people; it was now past five. I only had a short wait in line before I was able to speak with the maître d’.
“Is Cheryl working tonight?” I asked.
“Yes, certainly. You can see her in the back corner.”
I turned and stepped into the entryway to the dining room. It was a large, open room with a pleasant fire crackling in a stone fireplace to the right. About twenty dark-wood tables of various shapes and sizes filled the room, with wood plank floors and curtain patterns that seemed right out of the Revolutionary War.
I spotted Cheryl where she said, pushing a tendril of brown, shoulder-length hair back from a harried face as she leant over a table of six elderly patrons. They were scolding her about one of their orders, and she was nodding in patient agreement.
Jason was at my side. “Maybe calling her tomorrow might be a better idea,” he offered with a wry smile.
“I would tend to agree.” We turned and walked with my father and Zelda back through the maze of twisty passages until we reached the entry area again.
My father held his hand out to Jason. “Great to meet you, Jason,” he offered. “I look forward to seeing you again soon.”
“I hope so,” agreed Jason, and soon we had exchanged our farewells and moved out into the courtyard.
Jason smiled at me, taking my arm as the other two headed off to their car. “That seemed to go well,” he offered.
“It did, indeed,” I smiled back at him. We strolled toward the back of the parking lot.
I pointed in mild surprise. “Oh, look, a helicopter. I’ve been coming here for fifteen years and have never seen one of those in this back field.”
“Must be a wealthy visitor,” chuckled Jason.
He looked out beyond the field and shook his head. I followed his gaze to where a dense forest had once stretched. A year ago Massachusetts had experienced a freak tornado. We barely got one every fifty years and apparently we had been due for a monster. It had come straight across the forest, shearing off the tops of the trees at about twenty feet up as neatly as if a giant had set his lawnmower for that height and groomed with a steady push. Their limbs had been ripped off. So now there stood a field of dead poles, stark against the night sky, a reminder of that stunning day.
I shook my head. “It’s a bit grisly.”
He gave me a hug. “Eventually they will fall, their decomposing bodies will nourish the ground, and we’ll get a fresh forest to grow,” he reminded me.
“Still, it looks pretty somber right now.”
“Ah, but it’s your mind that makes it somber,” he pointed out. “Everything in life is neutral until our minds interpret it.”
I stared for a few minutes at the woods, thinking of this as being the first stage in a cleansing process. Soon the poles would collapse, melt into the earth, and fresh, green sprouts would stretch willingly to the sky. I could imagine it all; a smile slowly spread on my lips.
“I believe you’re right,” I agreed, and his arm drew me in close.