Consequence (2 page)

“We’re assuming homicide at this point. The
bashed-in skull and hasty burial indicate foul play.”

“Where did they find it? Is it a man or a
woman?”

Boone shook his head. “Don’t know yet. Found
it in the old shack on Weeping Woman Mountain. You know the one
near the gorge? Abandoned for years. Thursday’s snowstorm was
heavy, and rather than walk blind, Carlo and Nico decided to wait
it out there.”

Bridget bent over the stove, checking on the
baking buns. “Who is it? Anyone I know?”

“Can’t say yet. No identification.”

As she opened the oven door, the sweet smell
of sugar and cinnamon filled the air. Squirt raised her head and
sniffed. So did Boone.

“Mmmmm. Those about done?”

“Be patient.” She checked the digital timer.
“Two more minutes. Now, tell me more about this body.”

“Well, Carlo said they were sitting in the
cabin and decided to make a fire. They couldn’t find any wood, so
they ripped up a few of the floor boards. The place is falling
apart. It was easy to yank them up. After they had the fire going
and had more light, they started looking around the cabin. They
found some old newspapers, rolled them and used them for torches …
What?”

Bridget snarled aloud. “That’s great! Old
newspapers could have given us some valuable clues. Morons!”

Boone didn’t refute it. “Anyway, it’s not
recent murder. That’s where you come in. What I need is for you to
do some of your historical research, see if you can help me
pinpoint a time and, hopefully, a name.”

Bridget’s first thought was to turn down
Boone’s request. What they had was safe. Helping with an
investigation could upset the balance. She could not accept the
idea of losing his ... what? Friendship?

Before she could answer, the timer went off,
beeping relentlessly. She decided to wait and hear more about the
mystery before agreeing.

Impatient, she turned off the timer and
opened the oven door. Caramelized sugar oozed down the sides of the
buns, hissing against the hot baking sheet. With a mitt on each
hand, she pulled out the pan and put it on top of the stove. Then,
she swung back to Boone and crossed her arms.

“They have to cool now before I can ice them.
Continue.”

He stood and walked to the stove, trying to
reach around Bridget. “Just a bite....”

Bridget slapped Boone’s wrist and Morty
growled. “Ahh, ahh, ahh. Sit. You’ll get your share after you tell
me more.”

She opened a kitchen drawer, found a pair of
scissors and cut the tip off the small tube of white icing. “Do you
like a lot? Or a little?”

“What? Excuse me?”

“Do you like a lot? Of icing on your
buns?”

“Umm, a little, I guess.”

“Good. More for me.”

Bridget finished icing the cinnamon buns and
then squirted the last of it in her mouth. “Let’s go to the den.
Get my coffee, will you?”

She picked up the platter of buns and walked
through the archway into the large room.

The antique lamp by the window cast a warm
glow on walls lined with logs and chinked with aging, cream-colored
mortar. The fireplace was original fieldstone, built by master
stonemasons in the early 1800s. Her kindhearted neighbor set the
fireplace, in anticipation of Bridget’s return. All she had to do
was strike a match.

While Boone lit the fire, Bridget placed the
cinnamon buns on the old oak table and sat on the sofa. She held
the coffee mugs and waited for Boone to settle next to her. Before
he could lean back, Morty jumped on the cushions and dove behind
him, heading for Bridget’s lap. Squirt collapsed on the floor with
a deep sigh.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Bridget said, putting the
coffee mugs back on the table and placing the small dog onto the
floor. As a bribe, she pulled a bun apart and gave half to him, the
other half to Squirt. Licking her fingers, she selected another
bun.

“Home, sweet home. Greedy dogs, grumpy men
….”

Boone grimaced but let the insult slide,
reaching instead for his mug. They ate several buns and slurped
coffee in companionable silence. Soon, Boone placed another log on
the fire. He moved ashes aside with the poker, uncovering the
red-hot embers. Within minutes, the hardwood caught fire and heat
blasted the room.

“Ehh, now it’s too hot,” Bridget complained.
She removed her flannel shirt, revealing the tight, tank top she
wore instead of a bra. She kicked off her slippers and tucked her
feet under Boone’s thigh. She leaned against the soft, chenille
cushions and raised her mug for a sip. Her eyes glowed, her long
hair folded in curls about her shoulders. She poked at Boone’s
stomach with her toe, then put her foot in his lap.

“Now, tell me about the body. What do we know
about this person and how did he or she die?”

Boone squirmed uncomfortably, not sure if her
toes in his ribs discomfited him as much as her foot in his lap. He
slipped off her sock and began to massage her foot. Lately, Bridget
had been in his thoughts, even in his dreams at night. He wondered
how it would be to kiss her, to stroke her curvy body now that she
was older. She was unaware of her sex appeal and didn’t have a clue
how it affected him.

Her trips from home were more frequent, which
meant they didn’t see each other often. Maybe absence does make the
heart grow fonder, he thought.

“Well, that’s why I’m here. We don’t know who
it is or when death occurred. I’m sure I can figure out how, but I
thought this may be an interesting case. You might like to help me
with the background.”

Boone continued to rub her foot, sensuously
stroking her toes and ankle. She put her other foot into his hands.
“Sure, I’ll help,” she murmured, her eyes half closed. “That feels
so nice, Boone.”

She snuggled into the pillows with a
contented sigh. Boone’s eyes dropped to her breasts.

“Bridget,” he whispered.

“Boone,” she whispered back, her head lolling
on the pillows, her eyes closed as she luxuriated in his touch.

“I have to go now.”

Bridget didn’t react, locked in her cocoon.
Boone abruptly put her feet on the couch and stood. “Thanks for the
coffee. I’ve got to go.”

Bridget rolled off the couch and bumped into
the oak table, bruising her knee in the process. Morty raced into
the kitchen after Boone, snarling his farewell.

“What? Why?”

Boone was already in the kitchen, grabbing
his hat and slinging his quilted, police-issue jacket over his
shoulder. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said, then slipped out
the kitchen door. Bridget heard the cruiser’s engine rumble down
the long, winding driveway. She looked at Squirt, feeling a little
guilty but not sure why.

“Was it something I said?”

CHAPTER TWO

Bridget’s farmhouse sat off Last Chance Road.
A testament to the past, it was a drafty, two-story structure with
the requisite dank basement and heirloom-filled attic. She took
over the property when her father died.

Her mother, Fiona, moved to a condo in Tarpon
Springs, a quaint, Greek fishing and sponge diving community on
Florida’s Gulf Coast. She missed her husband of thirty years, but
after Kieran Cormac’s death, the attractive and young-at-heart
Fiona remarried. Her new husband, Fred Chapman, owned a famous
restaurant and made millions on his conch fritter recipe.

Fiona relinquished her share of the family
homestead in Pennsylvania, opting for the carefree, sunny lifestyle
of Florida. She played golf, lounged by the swimming pool, enjoyed
weekend jaunts on their fifty-foot powerboat, and shopped to her
heart’s content.

Last Chance Road, the western extension of
Riverfront in Eaton, was the main road in the township of Chance.
It skirted the southern side of Breakthrough Lake, before
continuing west. More than 2,000 people lived in the rural
community dedicated to agriculture, their farms scattered across
the mountainside and in small valleys. The local Amish population
increased as traditional farming became less popular with younger
generations. Royalties paid on natural gas extraction helped revive
some properties, but not many.

Most of the people visiting Chance were
either shopping at Peachy’s, or vacationing at the spring-fed
Breakthrough Lake. Surrounded by flourishing forests of white pine,
cypress and hemlock, Breakthrough Lake Lodge became a luxury resort
in the early 1900s. Wealthy Pennsylvanian families, eager to escape
the summer heat of the city, flocked to the resort. Lakeshore Road,
which encircled the attraction, was a scenic highway flanked by
extravagant lodges and rustic, one-room cabins.

The Chance Police seldom encountered crime.
The prevalent 911 calls were for traffic accidents since the wide
roadway enticed tourists to speed. Many involved wild animals that
wandered across the blacktop.

As he patrolled the road, Deputy Neil
Boudin’s tire spun on a slippery patch of ice. He slowed to a stop,
then parked along the patched guardrail. He recalled the last time
he’d been at that spot was after a horrific accident the summer
before. Two teens from Eaton hit a deer and rolled their jeep into
the ravine. The Jeep came to a stop, upside down in the creek and a
young woman almost drowned before her boyfriend freed her.

Neil appraised the serene, whitewashed
landscape. Verdant cedar trees bowed under the weight of snow,
while ice twisted naked brown branches into fantastical shapes.
Sitting in the warm police cruiser, its engine idling, he saw a
timid doe step onto the road. Seconds later, a small herd of does
followed her, ushered by a strutting ten-point buck. They paused
mid-way when the buck lifted his head to listen. Seconds later, a
mud-splattered pickup truck barreled down the road and the deer
leapt to the woods on the far side.

Neil didn’t need a radar gun to know the
truck was speeding. The limit on Last Chance Road was forty-five
and the truck had to be going twenty miles over that. He flipped on
the police lights and siren and made a quick U-turn.

Bridget cranked the washing machine switch to
normal and slammed the lid, then heard the telephone ringing. She
raced upstairs, but the answering machine clicked on. She snatched
the kitchen telephone off its cradle, interrupting the recording.
“Hello, hello? Wait a second. I’m here.”

She ran into her office and turned off the
recorder, then lifted the extension. “Hi. Who’s calling?”

“Hello. May I please speak with the person
responsible for the telephone account?”

The lilting voice belonged to a foreign
salesman inviting her to upgrade her long-distance service. After
several seconds and at least four “No, thank yous,” Bridget hung up
the telephone. She walked into the hallway, kicking a tennis ball
in frustration, which set off Morty. He snagged the ball and
brought it back to Bridget, dropping it on her shoe and staring at
her with beady black eyes.

“No. I’m not playing with you. Go away.”

The telephone began to buzz. “If you would
like to make a call …”

She walked back into the kitchen and slammed
the phone onto its cradle. Four days and Boone still hadn’t called
her about the body. She’d left messages on his home and work
phones, and even tried his cell.

“He’s not going to get rid of me that
easily,” she told Morty. She shoved her fists into the pockets of
her sweater, a misshapen mass of beige wool that once belonged to
her father. She wore the frumpy sweater whenever she worked in her
office, a drafty old porch converted into a sunny, yet chilly,
oasis. Here, tropical plants survived despite bitter blasts that
whistled through the cracks of the antique windows. She kept a
small, electric heater under her desk and a blanket on which both
dogs napped while she worked.

She knew Boone was avoiding her, but couldn’t
understand why. Annoyed, she decided to confront him.

Since it was laundry day, Bridget wore a pair
of torn jeans and a shabby T-shirt. She considered changing
clothes, but instead jerked on her boots and grabbed her coat off
the hook. She dropped her car keys in her pocket along with her
wallet.

She slammed through the breezeway and into
the garage. While the car heated, she groped the remote and the
door rumbled up its tracks. It stuck halfway. She pressed the
button again and it rumbled down, clunking against the concrete
drive. On the second try, the door went all the way. Her car slid
as she backed out of the garage. The driveway was slick beneath the
accumulated snow. Drifts reached the bottom of the car door.

Bright, reflected sunlight stabbed her eyes
and she fumbled on the dashboard for a pair of sunglasses. Then she
pushed the remote switch one more time to close her garage. Nothing
happened.

“Dang it!” she snarled, then drove away,
leaving the garage open. She knew the dogs would soon slip out the
pet door and forage in the garbage cans, knocking them over and
spreading coffee grounds.

On the plowed main road, snowmelt turned to
gray slush. A car driven by a teenager passed her on the left,
spraying her windshield with mud and snow. She turned on her wipers
and the mess spread. “Thanks jerk!”

Bridget wasn’t angry; she was panicking.
Boone hadn’t called for several days. Was he avoiding her?

For two years while rehabilitating, Boone
lived as a recluse, allowing only family and Bridget into his
private world. Now, she was being excluded.

She pulled into the driveway of the Chance
Police Department and skidded halfway into a parking space, too
close for comfort to Boone’s cruiser. Good enough, she
rationalized, then abandoned the car. Her boots crunched on the
icy, snow-packed pavement.

A wisp of smoke rose from the chimney of the
police station, an old stone church converted into a jail and
offices in the 1950s.