Consequence (5 page)

The next day, Bridget entered the glass doors
of the records department at the county courthouse. The clerk
glanced up from her novel on the counter.

“Hello Bridget! Working on a local
story?”

It was hard not to smile and be flattered.
People were interested in her columns, especially those
instrumental in her success. They took pride in their part.

“Hi Patty,” she said. “Yes, I’ve got a good
one this time and I’ll need some more help.”

Patty Bailer scrunched her shoulders in
anticipation. “Ooooh, I hope it’s a good mystery. Whataya got?”

Bridget swiveled her head to confirm the room
was empty, then leaned across the counter, placing her messenger
bag on it with a thump. “Murder!” she whispered theatrically.

Patty blinked and her mouth gaped. “For real?
In Eaton?” she squeaked. “When? Who was it?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out. Boone’s
looking into a homicide at the old Gaumer place. Do you know
it?”

Patty shook her head vigorously. “No. Let’s
get started.”

She placed an “Out to Lunch” sign on the
counter, lifted a heavy ring of keys from the desk behind her,
swung open the gate and beckoned for Bridget to follow her into the
archives.

Two hours later, a bell broke the women’s
concentration.

Patty peered around the stacks and saw a
customer at the counter. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

Bridget pushed her reading glasses to the top
of her head and rubbed her eyes. They had been looking at microfilm
of country property records, searching land grants, warrants, tax
rolls and deeds.

So far, they determined the property once
belonged to Samuel Eaton, the founder of the city. A land baron,
historians claimed Eaton used illegal means to accumulate thousands
of acres after his henchmen applied for land grants then “sold”
them to him.

In the mid-1800s, Eaton’s heirs sold the
property to a lumber company for its timber. Denuded, the
mountainside was worthless to many except for a poor Irish farmer
named Colin Gaumer, who purchased it after immigrating to
America.

It remained in the Gaumer family for the next
hundred years or so, until the county seized it for back taxes in
1964. It then became part of the Allegheny National Forest.

Patty came back with a large bound book.
“I’ve found Gaumer in the census. Look here,” she said, dropping
the heavy book on a table. “Sorry, it slipped.”

Patty’s finger traced the lined paper then
stopped. She beamed. “See, the family’s in the 1920 census. Looks
like Colin Gaumer was long gone by then, but there’s a Rebecca
Gaumer, aged twenty-six, and a Ray Gaumer, age eight. You think
he’s your mystery man?”

Bridget dropped her glasses back on her nose
and squinted at the spidery handwriting. “Are you sure that’s Ray?
It looks a bit like an ‘o’, I think.”

She scanned the rest of the page. “Yes, see
here? See the way the census taker wrote ‘Eaton’? Look at the ‘a’
and then look at the ‘o.’ I think that’s Roy Gaumer.”

“You’re right. Good catch,” Patty said.

Bridget sat again and picked up her pencil.
“Let’s see, he was eight years old in 1920, so if the skeleton is
his, he must have been close to sixty when he died. Plus the
property must have been abandoned by the time the land was seized,
right? I didn’t see anyone listed in the sheriff’s claim.

“I haven’t seen anything. We can check the
marriage and birth records next. See if he was married or had
children.”

“Frankie said he lived with an
African-American woman, but according to local gossip, they weren’t
married. They had a daughter named Cherry. Frankie went to the
school with the little girl.”

Patty snapped her fingers. “That’s it! Let’s
check school enrollment records and see what we find.”

“I didn’t know we could do that. Besides, we
don’t know her last name.”

“Let’s give it a try,” Patty suggested.
“Besides, how many children do you think were enrolled in 1960 in
Eaton? Besides, we know her first name.”

“School’s out for the holidays though.
There’s probably no one around.”

“We can call Walter Moore. He taught at the
elementary school for decades. I’m sure he knows the current
secretary. Doesn’t hurt to ask,” Patty suggested.

Walt Moore rubbed his forehead. “Let me
think,” he said hesitantly, his voice echoing on the speaker
telephone. “Phyllis something. Phyllis ... uhh.”

“Phyllis Surratt?” Patty supplied
hopefully.

“That’s it!” Walter said. “Would you like me
to give her a call? See if she can meet with Bridget?”

Patty pumped a triumphant fist into the air.
“That would be awesome. Thanks so much, Mr. Moore. Oh, and by the
way, congratulations on your marriage. I hear you’re going to be
the new manager at East of Eaton.”

He chuckled. “Not the manager. That would be
my wife, June. I’ll be her understudy.”

Bridget, curious, leaned closer to the
telephone. “When does Erica leave Eaton, Mr. Moore?” she
interrupted.

“She and Clay are getting married the second
week of January in Charlottesville, Virginia. He has extensive
family there and has to be at work by the middle of the month.”

“So, he’s going to teach at the University of
Virginia, eh? What are Marshall College girls going to do without
their crush?” Bridget asked.

Walt chuckled. “They’ll find someone else to
stalk. Clay tells us his replacement is a young woman from out
West. Her name is Cara Kent and her specialty is British
history.”

“Hmmm, new blood,” Patty chimed in. “Where’s
she staying?”

“She’s going to rent Clay’s house for now.
It’s for sale, but you know the real estate market isn’t what it
used to be.”

“He owns the Victorian house over on Bernard
Street, right?” Patty asked.

“Yes. If you know anyone who’s interested,
send them over.” Walt said.

“Will do.”

Bridget spoke. “Thank you again, Mr. Moore.
If you don’t mind, will you pass my number on to Phyllis and ask
her to contact me directly? Then you don’t have to play middle
man.”

“Sure will,” he said. “Keep me in the loop,
you hear? This is a fascinating story.”

After saying their farewells, Patty
disconnected the call. “You’ll have to let me know what Phyllis
says. Hopefully, she won’t give you a hard time. I know public
schools are required by law to keep enrollment records, but I don’t
know how long. Or if you need some kind of court order to see
them,” she added.

Bridget wagged her eyebrows. “Well, if I do,
I know a certain lawman I can call.

CHAPTER FIVE

Bridget gunned the snowmobile’s throttle and
the machine climbed the hill. She felt the handle twist through her
padded glove. The high whine of the engine mingled with Boone’s
machine, shattering the quiet in the evergreen forest.

Instead of driving to Weeping Woman Falls and
hiking through deep snow, they trailered the snowmobiles to Camp
Breakthrough and used the lodge’s ski trails and paths. Although it
added several miles to the trip, the marked trail was easier to
follow. Bridget and Boone knew the paths well; they both had worked
at the camp as teens.

When he crested the short hill, Boone
stopped, shoved his goggles atop his head, and checked the GPS
mounted on the snowmobile’s handlebars. He looked over his shoulder
as Bridget maneuvered closer.

“Not much farther,” he shouted over the noise
of the engines, pointing to a cluster of hemlocks to the northeast.
“It’s on the other side of those trees.”

Bridget gave a thumbs up and waited for Boone
to slip his mobile into gear. They were now in unmarked territory
with no trail. They needed to be cautious. No telling if any of the
snow-covered humps were boulders or just drifts. Plus, deep powder
would be difficult to plow through if it didn’t hold their
weight.

Several minutes later, they circled the stand
of trees and Bridget caught sight of the cabin. A blanket of snow
hid the decrepit nature of the structure, but she could see fallen
beams dangling from the porch. Menacing icicles dripped from the
edge of the roof. They turned off their engines, but the incessant
whine echoed in her ears. She yawned to pop her ears then shook her
head, hoping to drown the buzzing.

“I should have worn ear plugs,” she said. She
swung her leg over and hopped off the snowmobile. “Good golly, my
butt hurts!”

Boone grinned. “I’ll rub it for you
later.”

“Yeah, right,” she said. She turned towards
the cabin so Boone wouldn’t see her blush. Or see the speculation
in her eyes. She wondered what he’d do if she took him up on his
offer.

He walked behind her, pulling off his gloves
and shoving them into the pockets of his quilted jacket. She could
feel his breath, warm and moist, as it clouded in the cold air and
drifted over her shoulder.

“It looks different in the snow, doesn’t it?”
he asked.

Bridget agreed. They hiked past the cabin the
previous summer when she and Boone spent a weekend camping out. He
wanted to escape from the world, and she tagged along. They hadn’t
used a tent, slinging hammocks with mosquito nettings between
trees. Later, they built a fire and sat around roasting hot dogs
and then toasting marshmallows for s’mores.

It was a childlike moment and they dredged
some of their favorite memories. As twilight deepened, though,
Boone talked about Daphne, strangling on pent-up rage. Bridget
embraced him, then stroked his hair as she rocked back and forth.
Boone calmed immediately, embarrassed by his lack of control, but
he kept his arms wrapped around her hips, his head pressed against
her neck.

Later, they lay on their backs and watched
stars in the night sky. Bridget pointed out familiar
constellations, misidentifying half of them. Soon they were
laughing and Boone found he could breathe again. It was a turning
point for him; being able to speak about Daphne helped him release
much of his anger, his frustration. His misery ebbed.

It also was a turning point for Boone,
physically. For the first time in a long while, he’d held a woman
and wanted more. They never made love as teens, but came close on
several occasions, and now alone in the woods with Bridget, he
found himself looking at her in a new light.

The skinny, flat-chested teen he necked with
in the backseat of his father’s car was gone. She’d filled out, her
once-boyish hips and breasts now voluptuous. He felt an insane
desire to wrap his fists in her long, silky blonde hair.

Boone rolled over, raised himself on one
elbow and regarded her. Bridget, with hands lying across her
stomach, turned her head to Boone and recognized the desire, the
heat. He lifted his free hand and caressed her cheek. His fingers
were soft, tickling.

Bridget was afraid to breathe.

“Hey! You up there?”

From the darkness of the woods, Carlo and
Nico shone flashlights towards their fire. Stomping through the
underbrush, the brothers scrambled towards the camp, their shotguns
broken open and tucked over their arms.

“Alec! You guys up here?” Nico called.

Boone shook his head. “What timing,” he
muttered.

The brothers stumbled into the camp wearing
camouflage hunting pants and jackets, their caps pulled over their
ears. A year apart, Nico and Carlo were inseparable. They worked
together and even married twin sisters. The each lived in
custom-built log cabins on the same acreage.

Bridget welcomed the brothers that night on
the mountain, welcomed their intrusion. If Boone had kissed her,
she knew he would be remembering Daphne.

Gruff at first, Boone soon laughed at his
brothers’ gossip and antics, and the mood lightened. Carlo and Nico
stayed with them until the next morning, then disappeared in the
woods. It was the final day of the spring turkey-hunting season,
and they still didn’t have any birds.

Bridget and Boone hiked down the mountain and
never mentioned the night under the stars, slipping instead into
their well-established camaraderie.

Bridget tamped the memory and walked towards
the cabin, her boots sinking into the deep snow.

In the distance, she could see the dark
outline of a small shed and an outhouse. The rusting seat of an old
tractor jutted from a snow bank. She recalled how littered the
property around the cabin had been when they hiked by months
before.

“What’s inside,” she asked, pointing at the
rotting door, hanging ajar on rusted hinges.

“Not much. Trespassers took anything of value
a long time ago, and what’s left is trash. They burned most of the
furniture as firewood,” Boone said.

“So, nobody has lived here since Gaumer?”

“No. It’s been empty for a long time,” he
said. “The body’s been under the floorboards, rotting away I guess,
until Carlo and Nico found it and called me. Somebody crushed the
skull then hid the body. Pretty clear it’s a homicide.”

“The body’s not here anymore, right?”
Squeamish, Bridget imagined a skeleton with rotted flesh clinging
to a broken skull.

“No. The coroner packed the body and sent it
to a forensic anthropologist in Philadelphia. The coroner said
after a preliminary exam, he thinks it’s a man.” Boone said.

Bridget paused. “So, it probably is Gaumer,
then?”

“Could be,” Boone said, placing a bare hand
on her shoulder. “Let’s go inside. See what we can find.”

They walked to the side of the porch where a
large stone served as a stair. Boone held her hand as she placed a
boot on the snowy ledge. She scrambled onto the wooden porch,
swiveled and tugged her hand out of his. “I’m fine, you can let go
now,” she said, then slipped and fell against Boone, knocking him
to the ground.

He lay inert, stunned, while Bridget raised
herself off him. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled. She stood and
straightened her parka. Boone lay on the snow.