Page 1 by Bruce Watson

Forty gallons of sap for one gallon of syrup. Forty gallons of sap. Forty. . .

As she stepped into the Route 63 Sugar Shack on a brisk March morning, detective Mariel Maplethorpe could not get the number out of her head. She thought of all the gorgeous jars in all the quaint sugar shacks of New England. All those amber jugs, shaped like maple leaves or bears or just jugs, and each represented gallons and gallons of sap coursing through the veins of stately maples this time of year. Gallons and gallons tapped into buckets, then boiled and boiled (and boiled some more) just so the world would not have to suffer pancakes all doughy and bland. Forty gal—

Mariel’s mathematical marveling over maple syrup was stopped in mid-sentence by a sight that brought even a seasoned detective up short. She had come to the sugar shack to buy a gallon of syrup. Leverett being Leverett, i.e., an honorable town where boxes stuffed with dollar bills can sit all day at untended fruit and vegetable stands, the shack was empty. Mariel did not expect to see a soul; in fact she rather hoped she wouldn’t. She was in a hurry to get home with the syrup before her waffle iron warmed. But as she glanced beyond the shelves, piled high with amber jugs, she noticed the boiler in the back room. Forty gallons seemed an incredible amount of sap. But was forty gallons enough to drown the man in the plaid shirt and work pants who floated face down in Grade A Dark Amber syrup?