Aspen Allegations - A Sutton Massachusetts Mystery Read online

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  Zelda’s was a small restaurant, the right half a rowdy bar with exuberant locals, the left half a nautically themed upscale dining area. Its walls were decorated with navy-blue stripes interlaced with white, and drawings of clipper ships added an interesting visual appeal. I noticed the Enterprise as I entered, and thought with a smile how that name had graced so many different vessels over the years. Just that morning I had heard from a friend who lived in New York City; he had still not regained power from Sandy and decided off-the-cuff to abandon home for a week’s cruise. The Norwegian Gem had passed an aircraft carrier in the harbor, and my friend had enjoyed viewing the shuttle Enterprise which was housed on its deck. Apparently the Enterprise should have been covered for security reasons, but the hurricane had ruthlessly stripped away its protective grey shield.

  My mom and stepfather were waiting for me. I exchanged warm hugs with them before we were led to our table. My mother was shorter than me, with neatly trimmed short, dark hair and a warm smile. My stepfather, Frank, was just slightly taller than her, and his Italian heritage shone through in his olive skin and aquiline nose.

  “It’s always good to see you,” my mother welcomed as we settled down at the corner table. She turned to the waitress. “A bottle of Prosecco to start,” she ordered. We glanced over the prix fixe menu, a staple of Restaurant Week in Newport.

  Her mouth turned up in a smile. “I bet I can guess what you’ll have,” she teased gently. “Tuna appetizer, swordfish, and chocolate mousse.”

  I scanned the entries and nodded. “That’s it exactly,” I agreed. “Everything looks good, though.”

  “Did I tell you we saw a cougar in our yard a few weeks ago?” she asked, nodding as the waitress came over to pour out the bubbly. We gave our orders and the menus were swept up.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I thought there was some controversy over whether cougars were really roaming around in Connecticut.”

  Frank leaned over. “It certainly looked like one,” he confirmed. “We googled photos of cougars, and the sloped back and tufted ears were exactly what we saw. I saw a similar creature a few months before that, too, when driving back from Waterbury. A group of deer burst out on the road, ahead of me, and, behind them, a cougar was giving chase. The cougar pulled up to let my car go past, and then it set off after them again.”

  My mom gave a shake of her head. “There is a man on the commuter bus I take in to Hartford who is convinced that the state is responsible for the cougars,” she informed us. “Some sort of a conspiracy. He feels the wildlife experts brought in cougars and mountain lions in order to curb the deer population, and now the state doesn’t want to acknowledge it for liability reasons.”

  “If the cougars were endangered, maybe we should be pleased to have them back, to fill the web in properly again,” I mused. “Sort of like the raccoons.”

  “Was there a problem with raccoons?” asked my mother. “We had a female raccoon which visited our yard quite regularly, and to our delight she then began coming in with her young kits. But then suddenly they all vanished. We wondered if one of our neighbors had had them trapped and relocated.”

  “It wasn’t that long ago that raccoons were nearly wiped out by a disease similar to rabies,” I explained. “We are lucky that they are rebounding.”

  Her brow creased. “Are raccoons really necessary to nature?”

  I gave a soft shrug. “Everything has its place. If we lose a mid-level predator like a raccoon, it could cause the larger animals to starve. And, at the same time, it could cause the smaller rodents to blossom out of control.”

  The appetizers arrived, and I looked down at my tuna circles. They had a crispy tempura-style edging, and were served with a semi-sweet gyoza-style sauce. I would have preferred them straight up, with soy sauce, but this was an interesting enough variation. “Sort of like the bats,” I added.

  Frank was enjoying his clam chowder. “What about the bats?”

  I took a bite of my tuna. Yummy. I turned to him, putting down my fork.

  “Bats hibernate in caves in the winter. Recently, the bats have been infected by a white fungus. It interrupts their hibernation cycle and vast numbers of them have died.” I gave a wave with my hand. “The scientists cannot figure out how to stop it and, if we lose the bats, we could end up with serious mosquito overpopulation.”

  His brows creased in worry. “I’ve always liked bats. I did not realize they hibernated in groups like that.”

  “At least some types of them do,” I offered. “We get small groups of them passing through Sutton in the fall, on their way to wherever they hibernate. I always wish them well.”

  He nodded, then took another sip of his soup. “This is some of the best clam chowder I’ve ever tasted,” he praised, smiling to us. “I think because it’s Rhode Island clam chowder. It seems the Boston and New England varieties are creamier, while this is more brothy. It’s just right.”

  My mom patted him on the arm fondly. “I’m so glad you are enjoying it, dear.” She turned to me. “How are you doing, with the events of the past few days?”

  It was if a shadow had been lurking in the corner of the room, and it suddenly billowed into a threatening pose. “I’m still coming to grips with it,” I admitted. “But it seems that it may have just been a tragic accident.”

  My mother’s eyes were warm and kind. “Everything happens for a reason,” she commented. “What have you learned about him so far?”

  “That he was engaging, and that he brought joy to many people,” I related. “He was preparing to publish his memoirs.”

  Her eyes lit up. “You’re a writer,” she pointed out.

  A warm kindle began within me, one which glowed with a golden light. “I am,” I agreed, hope buoying me.

  “You could write a biography for him,” she encouraged.

  It felt perfect. It was as if I had been staring at a jigsaw puzzle and suddenly a piece I had not seen on the table had been handed to me. “Yes, I could.”

  She raised her Prosecco, and we brought up our own. “To completing the story,” she toasted, and the room echoed with the soft ring of glass on glass.