Consequence (12 page)

Did she want children? She hadn’t considered
it before, since marriage hadn’t been an option until now. She
flushed at the remembrance of Boone’s playful teasing and lustful
insistence the night he “proposed.”

She decided it felt good. No, it felt
wonderful, to be wanted by someone and for that someone to be Alec
Boone. It happened fast, but in truth, she and Boone had been
dancing around this for some time, beginning as teens in high
school. She didn’t need to be nervous, did she?

The telephone rang again and she lifted the
receiver. “Hello?”

Carlina Boone’s honeyed voice leapt through
the lines. “Belinda! I am so happy! You have finally agreed to
marry Alessandro. Mia Bella, we must go have lunch and make plans.
I think May is a most beautiful time to get married, yes? June is
overrated.”

Bridget bit her lip. Oh Boone, she thought,
what have you done?

* * *

Bridget reviewed the folder of bookmarked web
pages. So far, none of the obits turned out to be the “Ethel
Jefferson” she sought.

Boone said the forensic report from the
Philadelphia anthropologist confirmed their findings, so far. He
shared it with Bridget, who scanned a copy for her computer
records.

The anthropologist confirmed the victim was
male citing the skeleton’s large brow ridges and square chin. Also,
he reported, the pelvis was still in good condition, an exhibited a
narrow sciatic notch and sub-pubic angle, another indicator of
gender.

He placed the age at death between fifty and
sixty years and the height at five feet, six inches. He concluded
the victim’s ancestry was European because of the long, narrow face
and nasal chamber, as well as the V-shaped palate and mandible. His
findings fit the Census records that Gaumer was Irish.

The victim, he added, was a violent person,
suffering from abuse as a child and inflicting it as an adult.

The ante mortem exam disclosed healed
fractures in the forearm bones, often a parry injury from fending
off attacks during youth. He said the fractures of the nasal bones
and maxillae healed later in life and were consistent with injuries
from repeated beatings. He found other fractures along the
clavicle, humerus and the radius. In addition, the man had several
teeth knocked out. Calcified fractures on the phalanges pointed to
a person who fought with his fists on a regular basis, most likely
inflicting as much damage on others as he endured.

The hidden circumstances of his burial and
evidence in his bones, however, suggested wrongful death, despite
the previous abuse.

The cause of death was blunt force trauma,
the scientist said. The skull had been crushed with a large, flat
object. Embedded flakes of rusted metal indicated the weapon could
have been a frying pan, perhaps the one Bridget found rusting in
the cabin fireplace.

In the corner, from his new dog bed, Morty’s
ears perked up and he gave a low growl.

“Daddy’s home!” Bridget teased the dog,
setting aside the folder and walking into the kitchen to meet
Boone. At the sound of boots at the breezeway, she swung open the
door. His arms were full of brown paper bags and a bouquet of
flowers. Orange shasta daisies. Her favorite.

“Awww, you’re so sweet,” she said relieving
him of the flowers. “Where did you get these?”

Boone kicked the door closed behind him and
placed the bags on the kitchen table. “I wish I could take the
credit, but they’re from your pals at the bookstore.”

“Really?” Bridget looked at the card and her
eyes widened.

“Congratulations Bridget and Boone! Marcel,
June, Walt, Janet and Tim. (P.S. Erica, Clay and Daisy send their
best from Virginia!)”

“What in the world?”

He averted his eyes and hung up his jacket on
the coat hook by the back door. He unbuckled his thick black
leather belt and placed it and his holstered gun on the top of the
table. “Well, it appears word has gotten around town.”

“But it’s only been one day!” Bridget fumed.
“I’m going to kill her.”

“Who? My mom,” Boone asked in dismay.

“No. Mine. She’s probably called all her
cronies. It’s what she does.” Bridget explained. “I’m sorry, Boone,
but my mom is an incorrigible gossip and she wanted to get the jump
on Carlina.”

“Well, there’s no backing out now,” he said,
bending to stroke Squirt’s belly.

Morty approached Boone and leaned against the
big man’s calf. “Ahh, you want some of this?” Boone praised the
mongrel while scratching under its chin. Morty raised his head, his
eyes rolling in ecstasy.

“I don’t believe it,” Bridget said. “It’s
only taken, what? Three years?”

“Well, it helps I’ve been feeding him these
past few mornings,” Boone confessed. “I’ve been slipping him a
little cheese.”

Boone patted both dogs, then stood up. “I’m
going to change. I’ll be back in five.”

After dinner, Boone joined Bridget in her
office and she turned back to the forensic file. “He was a rough
character,” she said, rifling through the report. “You know, he
probably beat his wife and daughter.”

Boone agreed. “I’ve thought about that.
Domestic abuse is consistent with this type of crime. He beat her,
she got fed up and whacked him on the head. She hid the body under
the floor and ran.”

Bridget continued the train of thought. “She
must have been very frightened.”

“It’s more common than you think,” Boone
said. “The question is where did she go?”

Bridget leaned back in her new office chair,
crossing her hands over stomach.

“I’ve been doing a lot of research, but it’s
difficult because the last name is a popular one. According to the
2000 Census, it is the second most popular name for
African-Americans, following Washington. The assumption is,
Reconstruction-era freed people chose last names and many chose
presidents. It’s not that they’re related to George Washington or
Thomas Jefferson, they were showing national pride after
emancipation.”

Boone leaned against the bookcase and waited
for her to continue.

“The good news is, the Census reported less
than 40,000 Jeffersons in the United States. Of that, half are
women.”

“So, we’re down to 20,000 people to
investigate?”

Bridget shook her head. “No, that’s the good
news. The bad news is, she may have remarried and changed her name.
That is, if she stayed in the United States. Even if she didn’t get
married, she could have taken a new identity.”

“Where else would she have gone?” Boone
asked.

“A lot of African-Americans immigrated to
Canada and it is possible she considered it. I mean, what with a
murder charge hanging over her. I know I’d beat feet.”

Boone tucked the forensic report under his
arm. “Well, it’s an interesting case, but it’s cold so don’t spend
too much time on it. I’ll keep it open and if anything comes up,
I’ll let you know.”

Bridget sat straight in the chair, eyes wide.
“What? You’re not investigating anymore?”

He smiled indulgently. “Bridget, there are no
relatives clamoring for justice. We don’t have a dog in this fight.
Anyway, the Commonwealth will prosecute, if it ever does. There’s
not a lot of money in my budget and there’s only me and Neil
patrolling Chance. So no, it’s not an active investigation. It’s
open, but I don’t have the resources to commit.”

“But I can do it!”

“Instead of your other work? How much time
have you spent on this case already? Don’t you have a contract with
the newspaper?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “I have columns in
the hopper, but yes. I do have to wrap up some of my other
projects. I’ll tell you what, I’ll keep this file on my desk and
when I have spare time, I’ll work on it.”

“Agreed. I do appreciate your help,
sweetheart,” Boone assured her, leaning in for a kiss. “But it is
like finding a needle in the haystack.”

“Which is what I do best,” she gloated.

Boone’s cell phone rang and he glanced at the
screen. “Mamma,” he said, recognizing the caller. “This will take
awhile.”

Intent again on the computer, she grunted,
not noticing him walking away, his voice fading in the
distance.

Bridget logged into the ancestry software she
subscribed to and, on a whim, made a new family tree using the
surname “Jefferson.” Pretending to be Cherry Jefferson, she plugged
in the names of her parents, “Ray Gaumer” as father and “Ethel
Jefferson” as mother.

For two hours, she perused Census records and
birth and marriage notices. As she read the various hints, she
saved notes in the virtual “shoebox” the software provided. She
thumbed back and forth through the web browser’s tabs while she
traced leads.

Boone poked his head into the office doorway
and yawned. “I’m heading to bed,” he said.

Bridget minimized the computer window. “I’m
coming too,” she said with a tired smile. “What did your Mamma
want?”

“She and Dad invited us to dinner at the
French bistro in Eaton,” he said. “I told her I’d let her know
tomorrow. I didn’t want to promise anything without talking to you
first.”

Bridget paused on the first step of the
stairs and swiveled, wrapping her arms around Boone’s neck. She
leaned into him and rubbed her cheek against his scratchy one.
“Dinner out, huh? Must be important for Mama to eat someone else’s
cooking.”

“Yeah, okay, you’re right. She’s calling it
an ‘engagement dinner,’ except it’s only the four of us. She has
the entire clan coming to Sunday brunch. That, I couldn’t
refuse.”

She brushed his lips with a soft kiss. “I’d
be honored to have dinner and brunch with the family,” she
whispered, ending with a squeak as Boone’s hands slid down her back
and cupped her bottom.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Despite her assurances otherwise, Bridget
didn’t put the Gaumer murder case aside. She pulled out her reserve
articles and sent them to her agent to fill syndication requests.
It bought her an additional six weeks to focus on finding Ethel and
Cherry Jefferson, not that she would need them. Bridget was
confident she would find the missing woman’s trail in a few days or
so.

Still, having six weeks to wrap up the case
and enjoy her new relationship with Boone was too much to
resist.

After three days slogging through the
ancestry software, Bridget’s head swam with names, dates and dead
ends. Several times, she followed a family line only to have it end
in disappointment. Although the expensive software promised its
records included the 1940 Census, few states had released them yet.
Compounding the problem was Ethel Jefferson’s heritage. Many
records were missing or incomplete for persons of African
descent.

She had two solid leads, so she wrote emails,
made telephone calls and sent letters to the individuals, hoping
for a connection. With one exception, all of the records indicated
Ethel had gone south. She found a twenty-year-old obituary
mentioning an “Ethel Jefferson Fontenelle” as the surviving wife of
Paul-Henri Fontenelle, but it was from Massachusetts and when
Bridget read the notice, she found six children listed, all older
than Cherry Jefferson. The closest in age was a girl named Cerise.
No help there, but Bridget saved the notice in the “shoebox” along
with dozens of other remote possibilities.

When her cell phone rang, she snatched it
eagerly. “Hello?”

“Are you still working?” Boone asked,
recognizing her faraway tone. “Remember, we have dinner with my
parents this evening. I’ll be home soon to change.”

“Oh crap! I forgot,” Bridget blurted, then
apologized. “I’ll get in the shower now. Be ready in twenty.”

Boone laughed softly. “It’s alright, we have
time. We don’t have to be there until six.”

Bridget was already gone, having dropped the
cell phone on her desk before sprinting up the stairs. Boone heard
Morty’s excited bark as he chased after her. Ending the call, he
tucked the phone into the small plastic holster at his hip.

He closed a folder on his desk and logged off
the computer. Swiveling in his office chair, he faced his deputy.
“Neil, I’m heading out a little early.”

The other officer nodded absently. “Yeah, I
heard. Dinner. Have a good time,” he said, his eyes glued to the
computer screen as he ended a hand of solitaire. “Got it under
control, boss.”

Boone picked up the telephone on his desk and
punched in a series of numbers, setting up the call forward. “I’m
on backup tonight. Switch your calls to my phone before you
leave.”

“Will do,” Neil said, clicking the computer
mouse and reshuffling the losing solitaire game.

Boone smirked at the lack of attention,
knowing Deputy Neil Boudin would be alert if needed. Working for
the Chance Police Department didn’t require a lot of attention. Two
full-time officers worked two shifts and a part-timer worked the
weekend, with Boone and Neil on call. The Eaton answering service
backed up the third officer, Drew Williams, a retired city
policeman.

Bridget stood under the spray, the hot water
beating on her head. As the bathroom filled with steam, she tried
to still her racing thoughts. Her head swam with names, dates and
places. Often, while in the shower, she could make sense out of
clues. She tried to concentrate on the Jefferson trail.

A draft of air chilled her as Boone opened
the door. “Are you in here,” he called through the fog.

“Come and find me,” she wickedly invited.

Boone pushed the shower curtain aside and
Bridget pouted as she saw his shirtsleeve. “Awww, you’re still
dressed. Don’t you want to take a shower?”

“Don’t have time,” Boone said, dismissal in
his voice. “We need to be there in an hour.”

Bridget’s arm snaked out and curled around
his dark brown tie. She pulled him to her, then twisted the
showerhead, spraying him in the face.