Consequence (6 page)

“Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

Boone grimaced and turned his head. He didn’t
say anything.

Bridget dropped back to her knees and put her
mittened hands on his chest. “Boone, talk to me. Are you okay?”

He hissed through gritted teeth and cupped
his hands at his groin. “Just give me a minute, Bridget.”

She flushed as she realized the problem. When
she fell, she’d slammed into Boone’s lap. She mimicked his earlier
jibe. “I’ll rub it for you later.”

Boone’s eyes darkened. “Yeah, right,” he
drawled, mirroring her response.

“No really, I’m sorry,” she said, standing.
She turned towards the cabin and gave Boone some privacy. He
cringed as he sat, resting his arms on bent knees. He struggled to
his feet and twisted at the waist, brushing snow off his pants.

“It looks solid for such an old cabin,” she
noted, studying the building. Although the porch floor and the roof
sagged, its walls were thick logs chinked with gray mortar. A
fieldstone fireplace flanked the north side. The single window in
the structure was a fanlight transom over the front door. Bridget
counted three of the seven sunburst panes missing.

Cautious, she climbed back onto the porch and
tested the boards. They creaked beneath her boots, but seemed
stable.

Boone joined her on the porch, stepping
around her to the front door. When he reached out for the knob,
Bridget put a mitten on his bicep.

“Hold on,” she said. “You’re covered in
snow.”

Boone hesitated as she brushed off his back,
flinching when snow slid down his collar, melting into a cold trail
on his neck. He caught her mitten. “That’s good. Thanks.”

He turned the knob with one hand and used the
other to push the front door, bracing his boot at the bottom when
it stuck to the frame. The old wood gave with a wrenching sound.
Rusty hinges creaked as the door swung open.

Bridget leaned around Boone and squinted into
the gloom. She couldn’t see much, only a couple feet into the
dark.

Boone reached into his coat pocket for a
flashlight. The strong beam beat back the shadows as the light
traced across the large room. It shone through cobwebs dripping
from the rafters. Bridget crossed the threshold behind him and
examined the shamble.

For the past five decades, vandals visited
the cabin and left behind graffiti, empty tin cans, old food
wrappers and even a folding lawn chair. An old mattress moldered in
a corner. Bridget used her boot to flip over a mildewed magazine
and flinched when she saw the cover. A porno magazine, it featured
a naked woman bent over a chair, her bare bottom being spanked with
a paddle by a person out of the camera lens’ range. Bridget kicked
the magazine back over. Instead of falling back to the previous
page, it opened to the faded centerfold.

The photograph featured another woman, this
one wearing an open-front, black leather corset. Her huge breasts
poked through the strategic openings of the corset and garters
dangled on her thighs. She wore spiked, knee-high black leather
boots and held a riding crop in one hand. Her bright red lips
curved in a wicked grin, her eyes on a man crouched in front of
her, his mouth pressed to her boot. Bridget’s eyes darted to
Boone’s, then she nudged the magazine until it slid under the
mattress.

His lips twitched as he fought back a grin.
“Don’t you think that’ll be helpful?” he teased. “I mean, it could
hold some kind of clue.”

Cheeks pink with embarrassment, she strove
for an attitude of nonchalance. She removed her mittens, fisted her
hands on her hips and warned, “Don’t make me get my whip. Besides,
it’s too recent to belong to Gaumer.”

She turned towards the fireplace, knelt at
the opening and lifted a small branch someone had left for tinder.
She poked through the ashes.

“What did you say killed Gaumer?”

Boone turned his flashlight to the dark
recess. “A blow to the head with something flat and heavy.”

Bridget reached into the ashes and pulled out
a rusty, cast iron frying pan. She waved it experimentally.
“Something like this?”

He knelt beside her, wrapping his large warm
hand around hers as he grasped the pan. “You think ...?”

“Well, a woman killed him, right? Or at least
that’s what you’re thinking.”

Boone turned the frying pan over and looked
at the bottom. It had sat in the fireplace a long time and been
used by numerous vagrants cooking beans and other food. Perhaps
even Carlo and Nico had used it. His forensic training kicked in
and he worried any fingerprints would be long gone by now. So would
trace amounts of blood or hair.

He studied Bridget with admiration. “Okay,
let’s say this is the murder weapon. What’s next, Sherlock?”

“Provenance,” she said. “Let’s look under the
floor and see if there are any other newspapers.”

Boone placed the frying pan on the hearth and
moved towards the back of the room. He motioned at a pile of
clutter with the flashlight. “This is where Carlo and Nicco found
the body.”

In the gloom, she hadn’t noticed the boards
pried from the floor. She inched closer. “What made them look
here?”

“They weren’t looking, remember? They were
using boards as firewood while they waited out the storm. They
figured it would be safer if they used boards from the back of the
room where nobody walks.”

Bridget pursed her lips. “Makes sense.”

She knelt on the floor and peered into the
cavity. “Can we remove more of these?”

Bridget knelt on her hands and knees, her
head hovering over the opening in the floor next to his boot. The
similarity between her pose and the one in the magazine struck him
as humorous and he chuckled, but when she looked at him, her face
serious and questioning, he bit his lip.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, standing on her
knees and brushing her dusty hands together.

“Nothing,” he said, squatting beside her. He
placed the light on the floor, then tugged on a board
experimentally, testing to see if it would be difficult or not.
Then he stood and walked to the cabin door. “I’ve got a tool bag on
my snowmobile. I’ll be right back.”

Bridget grabbed the small flashlight and
turned on its powerful beam. She aimed it in the hole and swept it
back and forth. A few sweeps later, she spotted something bright.
With nimble fingers, she flicked away the dirt. A coin. She sat
back on her haunches, wiping the coin on her knee. She pointed the
light at it and squinted: a 1960 Roosevelt dime.

“Terminus ante quem,” she said aloud.

Boone heard her when he re-entered the cabin.
“What?”

Bridget turned shining eyes to him. “It’s
Latin. Terminus ante quem is an archaeological phrase referring to
the notion all the soil below an undisturbed layer dates before the
layer above. It’s been covered since the cabin was built in the
late 1800s, so the ground under the floor is probably untouched.
This coin may have been dropped when the body was placed under the
floor. Maybe it even fell out of his pocket.”

Boone shook his head in wonder. “You’re
pretty good at this, aren’t you?’

She stood and lifted her arms in a flourish.
“Hold your applause, please,” she joked.

He approached slowly. “I’m serious. You’re
remarkable. You might have found the murder weapon and the date of
death. What? In less than five minutes?” He stopped inches from
her, his eyes pinned on hers.

Bridget flushed at the praise and her heart
pitter-pattered at his proximity. She lifted a casual shoulder.
“It’s just logic,” she said, turning back to the opening. “Let’s
get rid of some more boards.”

Boone let it go. He didn’t want to embarrass
her. They continued to search the cabin, but nothing leapt out.
After an hour, they agreed to head back. As a reward, Boone
promised her a fabulous dinner.

CHAPTER SIX

Bridget bit a piece of crusty bread and
closed her eyes. “You’re amazing, Mama Carlina.”

Carlina Boone bustled around the dining room
table, setting down bowls of steaming pasta with homemade marinara
sauce and fresh basil. She placed a platter of grilled sausages in
front of her son. “Eat Alessandro,” she commanded. “You’re too
skinny.”

She blushed when her husband, Pastor Eli
Boone, leaned toward her and whispered in her ear, and then kissed
him on the cheek. “Carlo and Nico are expecting babies, do you
hear?”

“You mean their wives are, right Mama?” Boone
replied.

Bridget turned to Carlina. “Really? You’re
going to be a grandmother again? Congratulations! How many does
this make?”

“Si, si. We have many bambini now.
Alessandro; you’re the only one who hasn’t given your Mama a
grandchild. If Nico and Carlo can do this, you can too.”

Boone rolled his eyes. Carlina was determined
to have as many grandchildren she could coax out of her nine
offspring. It was a common theme at family dinners and
celebrations.

Bridget glanced at Boone timidly. The last
thing she wanted was to hear about him starting a family. She felt
a twinge of jealousy for the future Mrs. Alec Boone.

After dinner, which included three glasses of
Frascati white wine for Bridget, Boone suggested a drive up the
mountain to Weeping Woman Waterfall.

“Neil said it’s frozen and in this moonlight,
it should be spectacular,” he said, loading his camera equipment
into his backpack. “I’ll get some shots and then I can take you
home.”

He kissed his stout, dark-haired mother on
the cheek and clapped a hand on his father’s shoulder.

“Thanks Mama. Thanks Dad. Dinner was
wonderful.”

“Yes, Mama Carlina. I had a wonderful time.
Thank you very much,” Bridget said, giving her a hug. She was a bit
tipsy after drinking goblets of sweet wine.

Outside, Boone held her hand as she skidded
along the icy sidewalk to his cruiser. He opened the passenger’s
door for Bridget, then placed his camera bag into the trunk before
taking the driver’s seat. While the car warmed, Bridget blew gusts
of foggy breath and giggled. She leaned over Boone and breathed
heavily, fogging his window. Then she traced his initials in the
mist.

“You’re a bit giddy tonight,” he said.

“I know. I’m just letting loose.” Bridget
reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a tube of lip
moisturizer. She applied it to her lips and then to Boone’s. As
usual, Bridget’s familiarity disconcerted him.

“Thanks.” he said, dryly.

“Don’t mention it.”

They didn’t speak until they reached the
waterfall, a treacherous drive up a steep, icy hill. As Neil
reported, the waterfall was an ice castle. Bridget tried to walk
across the frozen pool and fell on her behind laughing. Instead of
fighting gravity, she crawled on her hands and knees towards the
falls. Boone, meanwhile, arranged the tripod and tested the light
with a meter. The quarter moon shone off the snow and ice,
contrasting with the towering black rocks. He shot several rolls of
film from different angles before looking for Bridget. He found her
on her back, spinning like a turtle on the ice.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking at the stars. They’re spinning like
a top.” She patted the ice with her mittened hand. “It’s beautiful.
Come down here with me.”

Boone stretched out beside Bridget, his knit
cap cushioning his head. Despite the moonlight, the stars were
brilliant against the cloudless night. They could even see the
Milky Way. Boone reached out and took Bridget’s hand in awed
silence. Eventually, the cold seeped into their bones and they
slipped and slid back to the car.

Bridget recalled another night on top of the
mountain, watching the stars with Boone. She often wondered what
would have happened last summer if Nico and Carlo hadn’t stumbled
into their camp at the right moment. Or, had it been the wrong
moment?

Fifteen harrowing minutes later, Boone parked
in Bridget’s driveway. “How about some coffee?” she asked. “You
light a fire and we can talk about the case.”

Bridget slipped into the breezeway, stamping
the loose snow from her boots. She could hear the dogs scratching
and Morty growling in welcome. She opened the door and greeted the
dogs.

“You guys act like you haven’t seen me in
months. Get down, Squirt. Morty, let go of Boone!”

As usual, Morty clamped his teeth into
Boone’s booted ankle and let the man drag him across the kitchen
floor. Boone walked to the pantry for the box of dog biscuits.
Morty released his grip and began jumping for Boone’s outstretched
fingers. Squirt, always a lady, waited her turn to take the bone
from his hand. Boone stroked her silky ears.

While Bridget ground fresh coffee beans and
prepared their mugs, Boone went into the den and set the fire. He
dumped the old ashes into a nearby bucket, and then built a small
pyramid of hardwood. He put crumpled newspapers and kindling under
the pyre, then lit a match. Within minutes, flames licked the wood
and the room glowed. Boone walked over to the bookcases and flipped
through Bridget’s collection of compact discs, selecting an
instrumental. He slid it into the player and turned the volume to
low.

Bridget entered, carrying a tray of with
steaming mugs of coffee and biscotti. She set it on the oak table
and then stretched.

“I need to change. My pants are wet from the
falls,” she said. “How about you? Are you wet?” She reached behind
Boone and touched the back of his pants. He raised an eyebrow at
her audacity.

“You’re soaking, too,” she said, undaunted.
“There are some old jeans in the laundry room. I’ll get you a
pair.”

She returned with one of her father’s flannel
shirts and a pair of pants. “Sorry; no drawers,” she said then went
upstairs to her bedroom. After a few minutes of thumping and
tossing, she bounced down the stairs wearing a pair of fleece
pajamas bottoms and a matching top covered by her frumpy sweater.
She had fuzzy slippers on her feet. Boone had seen the sleepwear
before, but tonight her casualness disturbed him. He kept recalling
aspects of their afternoon at the cabin; her kneeing him in the
groin, her teasing him about rubbing it later, her embarrassment
over the sexy photos in the skin magazine. He felt aware of her
every move. Too aware.