Consequence (13 page)

“Whoops, so sorry,” she teased. “Since you’re
already wet, c’mon in. You’ve got time.”

Rather than protest, he started unbuttoning
his dress shirt. “Good thing I took off my belt,” he said. “Hard to
explain a wet gun.”

She eyed his leather boots. “Maybe you should
start leaving your shoes downstairs, too,” she said.

She placed her hands on his, stopping him
from unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way. The khaki material
clung to his chest and through it and his white T-shirt below, she
could see the outline of hard muscles. “Leave it on,” she said, her
voice husky. She turned off the shower spray and stepped onto the
bathroom rug, pinning Boone against the vanity. “Just undo this,”
she added, moving his hands to his pants zipper.

“To serve and protect, ma’am,” he
growled.

* * *

Looking around the bistro, Bridget worried
she was under dressed. In their haste to make the restaurant at
six, she and Boone opted for casual clothes that didn’t require
ironing. He wore a button-down white shirt, tucked in jeans. Black
leather boots and a black leather coat completed his attire. He
wore a shoulder holster, since he was on call, but when Mama told
him he looked like a thug, he unsnapped it and slung it across his
lap.

Bridget felt like a harridan, since she
hadn’t been able to finish drying her long hair. Still damp, it
curled into honey-colored ringlets. She wore a sleeveless black
dress and capped it with a pink cashmere sweater. Her perfume was
light and floral. She exuded strength and charm and understated
elegance. She was a natural beauty, despite her worries to the
contrary.

Their hurried adventure in the bathroom had
left its mark; they glowed with health and love. Pastor Boone
shared a knowing look with his wife, Carlina, when the couple held
hands. Carlina focused on their enjoined fingers, resting on the
linen tabletop.

The waiter busied himself opening a bottle of
champagne while they perused the menus. Instead of ordering,
however, Mama Carlina put her menu on the table and arched an
eyebrow at Boone. “Alessandro, what’s the meaning of this?”

Boone looked up from his menu, turning from
his mother to his father, then to Bridget. His eyes darted back to
his mother’s and he froze, feeling like a naughty boy. He wasn’t
about to admit to anything.

Pastor Boone placed a warning hand on her
forearm. “Now Carlina,” he murmured.

She shook off the hand and tilted her head
towards Boone. “I want to know why this son of yours has proposed
to the beautiful Bridget, but still there’s no ring on her hand.
What’s this world coming to? Where’s the tradition? The honor?”

Boone exhaled. “Funny you should mention that
tonight, Mama,” he started, but Bridget interrupted. “It’s okay,
Mama Carlina,” she said. “I don’t need a ring ....”

She tapered off when Boone squeezed her hand
and then released it. “Mama’s right.”

Bridget squirmed uncomfortably. She didn’t
want Boone to feel pressured or embarrassed in front of his
parents.

“It’s true, we haven’t talked about rings or
a wedding date, but I figured I’d leave the specifics up to you
two,” Boone said, looking first at his mother then at Bridget. “I
do have the ring, though.”

He reached behind him, into his jacket pocket
and withdrew a small, black velvet box. “This seems like a good
time,” he said, smiling. “I planned on giving it to you this
evening, but we were running late,” he added with a wink.

Too flustered to blush, Bridget stared at the
box, then at Boone, then back at the box. She waited. And
waited.

Boone got the message and opened the box,
turning it towards her. “Since you’ve already accepted my proposal,
and I wouldn’t want to ask again since the timing of the first one
was impeccable, I’m going to slip this on your finger.
Alright?”

Bridget did blush this time, recalling the
unusual position Boone assumed that special night. Sure, he had
been on his knees, but she’d been …..

She bit her lip to prevent a giggle and Boone
grinned. He wiggled the delicate, white gold and diamond ring from
the case and held it out. Bridget lifted her left hand and watched
him slide the band onto her ring finger.

“Satisfied, Mama?” he asked.

Carlina smirked. Pastor Boone chuckled. “Well
done, son.”

While the others looked at their menus,
reviewing the choices, Bridget turned her hand at different angles
and watched as candlelight bounced and refracted on the delicate,
square-cut gem. She was delighted with its simplicity.

“Are you ready to order?” Their waiter stood
behind Bridget. She grabbed the menu and opened it. “Yikes! I have
no idea,” she whispered to Boone. “What are you having?”

Boone ordered the filet, and while his
parents placed their order, Bridget scanned the menu.

She motioned for the waiter to move to her
side. “I’d like something light,” she said. “What do you recommend?
Do you have any favorites?”

This was Bridget’s normal routine at new
restaurants; she always deferred to the wait staff, knowing they
were more familiar with the menu and pleased to be asked. They
often gave her inside tips and suggestions.

“My wife enjoys the crab bisque with artisan
bread and the salade de tomates cerise,” he suggested. “It’s quite
satisfying without being too filling.”

Bridget frowned at the menu. “Cerise?” she
repeated. The word sounded familiar, but she couldn’t recall. “What
is that?”

“It’s French, ma’am, for cherry tomato. The
salad is a simple ….” The waiter’s voice faded as Bridget dropped
the menu and stood. Her abrupt and forceful movement knocked over
her chair.

The rest of party stared at her in alarm.
Boone stood on the alert, his gun belt in hand, his eyes sweeping
the restaurant. “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked, scanning the
room.

Over the space of several seconds, Bridget’s
face changed from shock to joy. “Oh my God! That’s it! I found
her!”

Boone cocked his head. “What? Found who?” He
continued to swivel, eyeing the other restaurant goers, most of
whom watched the Boone family in alarm.

The waiter righted the chair and asked with
concern if she was okay.

Bridget wanted to dance. She wanted to raise
both arms in exultation, but this wasn’t the time. Contrite, she
winced and sat in the chair.

“Please excuse me, I am sorry,” she
apologized to the Boones. To the waiter, she said, “Yes, I’ll have
the soup and salad, thank you.” She scrunched up her shoulders. She
couldn’t hold back. “Cherry Jefferson. Ethel Jefferson. I know
where they went.”

Thunderstruck, Boone sank into his chair.
“What? How?”

Before Bridget could reply, he turned to his
parents. “Bridget’s been helping me with a cold case. The body
Carlo and Nico found. It was a murder, back in the ‘60s.”

He turned to the trembling Bridget and
waited. “Go ahead, explain.”

Bridget couldn’t keep the triumph from her
voice when she told them about her search for Ethel Jefferson, how
she had followed many leads, merely to end up with dead end after
dead end. One of those dead ends was up north, where an obit
mentioned the widow of a French Canadian. The problem was, there
were many siblings and only one close to the age of Ethel’s
daughter. “And,” she said, pausing dramatically, “her name is
Cerise.”

Bridget looked around the table expectantly.
The Boone family waited, not making the connection.

“Cerise,” Bridget said. “Cerise is French for
cherry tomato. That’s what the waiter said,” she added, swiveling
in her chair to look for the helpful man. “Ethel went to
Massachusetts, married a French-Canadian, then changed Cherry
Jefferson’s name to Cerise. What threw me off were the other
children in obit. Cerise was the youngest of six,” Bridget
said.

“She probably married a widower with five
children of his own,” Carlina interjected.”

“My thoughts exactly!” Bridget said.

“You are so clever.” Admiration warmed
Carlina’s voice.

“Yes, you are,” the Pastor agreed.

Giddy, Bridget flushed at the praise.

Boone agreed. “Yes, she’s amazing,” he said
to his parents, his smoldering eyes pinned on hers.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Bridget couldn’t sleep. Adrenaline pulsed
through her bloodstream, forcing her from bed. She went downstairs
to her office and turned on the desk light. She booted up the
computer and waited for the system to run its startup diagnostics.
Knowing it would take a few minutes to complete, she padded into
the kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea.

Ever faithful, Morty and Squirt followed as
she moved through the dark house. They knew the routine and weren’t
distressed. She often woke with a hunch and worked for a couple of
hours in the middle of the night. She learned years ago to give up
trying to sleep once she awoke with an idea. If she tried, she
tossed and turned for hours, worrying about everything and
anything. Better to get up, get some focused work done, sip some
soothing tea and then go back to bed before dawn. That way, she
could catch a couple more hours of sleep.

The microwave beeped, and the digital clock
read three-thirty-three. Bridget removed her cup, careful to hold
it by the handle. She stirred in a spoonful of sugar, then walked
to her office. She heard the scrabble of toenails behind her when
the sleepy dogs rose and followed. Back in her office, Morty
settled in his dog bed. Squirt circled the desk a couple times
before settling down next to her chair, her head resting an inch
from Bridget’s slippered foot.

Bridget opened the Jefferson folders and
files, then paged through her notes until she came to the saved
obit.

Armed with names and places, she opened a web
browser and tabbed to her favorite search engine. For the next two
hours, she saved information into a new virtual folder, printed
pages and saved those in a manila folder. Although most of her work
was stored on computers and in the cloud, she liked to have a hard
copy of the more important data. She stored these in the file
cabinet behind her desk. As a historical researcher, she knew
saving different forms of information was important; technology
changed fast. She saved all the floppy discs, zip drives, CDs, DVDs
and thumb drives she used. She resisted buying the Blu-ray system,
and instead considered converting her records into microfiche. A
museum director told her when it comes to ephemera, digital storage
systems and the ability to read them came and went, but people
would always have a magnifying glass.

Made sense to her, but she still hadn’t
invested in the old-fashioned backup system. Maybe someday.

But tonight, she was on a mission and it took
her to Massachusetts and New York.

As she searched the Internet, she became more
convinced Ethel Jefferson moved to Lowell, Massachusetts, where she
met and married Paul-Henri Fontenelle, the son of French Quebec
Canadian immigrants. Fontenelle’s first wife, Abigail, had indeed
died, soon after giving birth to her fifth child. Bridget tried to
imagine his hardship and grief, losing a wife and having a houseful
of children, all under the age of twelve.

According to the genealogy report, the couple
had a son, Paul-Henri Jr., in 1937, triplet daughters, Marie,
Sophie and Abigail, in 1940, then another son, Jean, in 1946.
Abigail, like so many American wives, reared her children alone for
a while as Paul-Henri served in the armed forces during World War
II.

Fontenelle didn’t remarry until 1962 and by
then, his youngest son was close to sixteen. Cherry Jefferson, then
thirteen, became part of a large family, receiving a new parent and
a new name.

Bridget wondered how Fontenelle met Ethel.
What kind of circumstances brought together the frightened single
mother on the run with her equally frightened daughter, and a
widowed father of five teenagers?

Whatever the circumstances, they met and
married. Bridget was convinced Cerise Fontenelle was Cherry; she
could find no birth records for a Cerise. She did find a small
announcement in the 1962 Lowell newspaper. The justice of the peace
at the Lowell City Hall married them with family present.

Following Ethel after that proved difficult;
she fell off the Internet grid until her husband’s obituary.

Cerise was a different story. Bridget found
Cerise through her faculty biography. A sociology professor, her
curriculum vitae was extensive and she authored many journal
articles and even a textbook. The young girl graduated summa cum
laude from Lowell High School, the first desegregated and
co-educational high school in the United States. She earned a
full-ride scholarship to Harvard, where she earned her bachelor’s
degree. She moved to California and attended Berkley, where she
achieved her master’s degree, following it with her doctorate. By
1976, Dr. Cerise Fontenelle was back in Massachusetts where she
married the up-and-coming writer, Guillaume Larouche. The couple
had one daughter, Diara Larouche, who also attended Harvard and
graduated with a master’s degree in business administration.

Guillaume wrote popular thrillers and
mysteries, and even had a couple on the New York Times Bestseller
List. Bridget smirked at the irony; did the writer know about the
mystery of his murdering mother-in-law?

Diara was easy to find. She lived in New York
City and worked for a large commodities firm on Wall Street. Photos
were plentiful since she ran with a wealthy, popular crowd.

“Holy crap, is that Derek Jeter?” Bridget
gaped at a photo of the laughing couple caught by the paparazzi on
a busy Manhattan street. “Dang, Ethel, bopping your first husband
on the head was the best move you ever made.”

Ethel’s daughter had been welcomed into a
secure and loving family who supported her intellectual talents.
She excelled in her field, reaching a zenith as a respected member
of a prestigious university. She married a successful author, and
their brilliant and beautiful daughter mingled with the New York
glitterati.