Saturday morning I started getting into my disguise at 6:30. Stage make-up advanced my age a good ten years, plus the padding under my uniform added about fifty pounds to my appearance, with a beer belly any brew swiller would be proud of. Heavy work boots and a baseball cap finished it up. 7:15 and I was locking my tool kit under the spare and ready to go. The drive to Framingham went without a hitch, no commuters, and no leaf peepers this early in the day. The route I chose was circuitous, not direct. I spotted the TT in the drive as I neared the house. Pulling the van into the drive, I parked across the double garage door, the sliding door of the van facing the doors. The lights came on as I got out of the van, over zealous sensors had obviously activated them. I opened the back of the van and got my tool kit and slipped on a pair of latex gloves. Ringing the door bell, within fifteen seconds, I was face to face with my latest acquisition. I was certainly not disappointed. ?We’ve. ”“How?” Patricia asked.“I’m going out there to ask around.”“This is a funeral, it isn’t a courtroom. You just stay right where you are,” Rebecca said tersely.“My brother’s little funeral is turning into an affair of state. I’d like to know what’s going on.”“I’m sure that it’s some kind of mix up. Maybe they think he’s some other Peter Moore.”Rebecca said, “Peter had a lot of friends in all kinds of places. You didn’t know him like I did.”The slamming of a door destroyed the natural noises of the forest. The birds stopped chirping and the larger animals all froze. The man responsible for the door’s slamming was storming towards a 1950 Willys M38 Jeep. The body wasn’t original, having been replaced with a new tub three years earlier by a Jeep collector, who upon having completed the restoration had found one of the same year with a better pedigree. The body had been repainted in the original flat army green complete with a white star on the rear fender. There was a shovel and an axe.
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