Consequence (14 page)

“Wow,” Bridget murmured, lifting a cold cup
of tea to sip.

She jumped, startled by the “What wow?”
behind her. Bridget swiveled in her chair to see Boone, dressed in
boxers and stretching. The rosy dawn bathed his six-foot frame in
soft light. If he had dropped his pants, he could have modeled for
a classic Italian statue, Bridget thought.

“Hmmm, not a bad idea,” Bridget said.

He yawned. “What’s not a bad idea? You know,
you talk to yourself a lot.” He turned and headed for the kitchen.
“I’m going to make some coffee. You want some?”

Morty’s head swiveled between her and the
now-empty doorway. The little dog was torn between staying in the
office with his mistress, and following his new best friend, Boone,
into the kitchen. The dogs knew the routine and it went this way:
the mistress woke up in the middle of the night, sat at the desk
and mumbled to herself for an hour or so, then went back to bed,
where they all joined her, curled at the foot. But the man had a
new routine they were learning and they liked it. Each morning, he
woke up and went into the kitchen where he moved things around,
made a lot of noise, and then fed them. He also rubbed their
tummies and ears.

The whirring noise of grinding coffee beans
decided it and Morty dashed for the kitchen. Squirt raised her
head, sighed and dropped it back down, placing it gently on
Bridget’s foot.

Bridget chuckled and pushed back her chair.
“Come on, you know you want to,” she told her beloved shepherd,
caressing silky soft ears. They followed Morty and Boone into the
bright, warm kitchen.

Bridget snuggled against his broad back and
rested her head on his shoulders. Her hands slid up and down his
muscled ribcage, distracting him while he spooned a beef and gravy
mixture into bowls.

“How long have you been up?” he asked, then
pulled out of her embrace to place the dog food bowls on the floor.
Bridget moved to the table and slid into a chair. “The usual. After
three,” she said with a yawn. “But I’ve made progress, so it’s
worth it.”

“Oh yeah? What did you find?” Boone opened
the refrigerator, reached in for the half-and-half and placed it on
the counter next to the sugar bowl. The aroma of coffee filled the
kitchen, wafting on the warm updrafts. Boone had replaced all the
thermostats with digital ones, and they came on at specific times,
ensuring the kitchen would be cozy when he rose in the morning.
Soon, the bathroom thermostat would kick on, in time for his
morning shower. Her office thermostat wouldn’t turn on until later,
since she seldom used it before eight o’clock. After sitting at her
computer in the chilly room for several hours, ensconced in her
fleece robe and slippers, the heat in the kitchen was welcoming.
Now too warm, she wanted to drop her robe, but all she wore were
panties. A look at Boone’s back settled it. She shimmied out of the
pink robe. When Boone turned around, an empty cup in each hand, his
eyes widened at the sight of her sitting bare-breasted, one leg
crossed over the other. Her fluffy sheepskin slipper hung onto her
toes as she bobbed her leg. With a leer, she tossed her head and
her long hair cascaded over one shoulder. She kept her eyes pinned
on his boxers and waited. She didn’t have to wait long. She licked
her lips provocatively when the plaid material billowed beneath his
waistband. “I’ll tell you what I found, but first, would you fill
me up, sweetie?” she asked, her voice playful.

“That’s what she said,” Boone told Morty.

“You’ll send me those files, right?” Boone
asked while he tied his black, leather work boots.

“Take the folder on my desk,” Bridget said,
her voice muffled as she took refuge under the quilt. Boone hadn’t
gotten his cup of coffee after all, scooping her out of the kitchen
chair and carrying her upstairs to the new king-sized bed. But now,
sated and sleepy, Bridget relaxed under covers. Boone’s hand
reached beneath the quilt and stroked her back, his warm hand
sliding over her shoulder, cupping her bottom before reaching
between her legs and squeezing. Bridget flopped on her back,
pinning his hand beneath her. “You wanna go a second time,
mister?”

“Tempting, but no. I’m not going to be late
again. You don’t have to hear the innuendoes when I check in with
the answering service. Cackling hens,” he said, but his hand
lingered, stroking her belly.

“C’mon,” Bridget whispered huskily, while his
fingers slid her thighs. “You know I can’t resist you in your
uniform.”

“Which is too hard to take off and put back
on,” Boone said, his fingers dipping and stroking. Still, he sat on
the edge of the bed and leaned in for a kiss, his free hand
reaching for her breast. Her teeth nipped his bottom lip. “Well
then, don’t take it off,” she invited. “Just keep doing what you’re
doing.”

Minutes later, she sighed and sank back into
the pillow. “Okay, you go to work now,” she murmured.

Boone had access to official records and by
the end of the day, he learned through Social Security and Medicare
that Ethel Jefferson Fontenelle resided at an assisted living
facility in Lowell.

Now 82, she was feeble, although HIPAA
records did not list any serious infirmity or disability. Boone
made a call to the facility’s director and explained Ethel’s status
as a suspect, who in turn gave him access to medical information.
Ethel controlled her high blood pressure and high cholesterol with
medicine, but elected to live at the nursing facility because of
severe osteoporosis.

Her emergency contact and closest living
relative was Cerise Larouche, who lived near Boston, and Diara
Larouche, who lived in New York City.

Boone wondered why the fragile old woman
didn’t live with her family. Were they close? Still, there wasn’t a
logical reason not to follow up on the report. He put in a call to
the district attorney’s office.

While he waited, he sketched a list of
probable tasks relating to the case. According to Pennsylvania law,
Gaumer was a victim of crime so he would not have a private
attorney. The Commonwealth, represented by the district attorney or
attorney general, would bring the charge before the court since
violations of criminal law are offenses against the community.

The normal sequence of events would be, the
alleged crime occurs, the police arrest the suspect, a preliminary
arraignment is set, and then a preliminary hearing is held.
Ordinarily, this would take place in one of the base-level courts
to determine whether to bring the case to trial. If the trial takes
place (jury or non-jury) or the defendant pleads guilty, then there
could be a conviction. If convicted, a sentencing hearing is
held.

Of course, the sequence would change if the
case were discharged.

The telephone on his desk rang. “Chance P.D.
Chief Boone,” he said.

The gravely voice of District Attorney Carl
Wrobeleski replied, “Whatcha got, Boone?”

After several minutes of conversation, Carl
said, “And you want to file charges? You know what this involves,
doncha? You’ll probably never get her here.”

Boone waited and through the telephone line
he could hear the raspy sound of a hand rubbing a whiskered
jaw.

“Alright,” Carl said. “Fax me copies of the
report and any physical evidence you have. I’ll need statements,
where the body was found, etc. You know the drill, even though this
is the first murder case to be filed in Chance in, what? Twenty
years? I’ll take a look and if we determine it’s a homicide, I’ll
approve all felony charges on an open count murder.”

Boone shuffled pages in the thick report on
his desk. “Will do.”

“One more thing,” Carl said. “I hear you’re
getting married to the Cormac girl.”

“Yes sir.”

“Well, congratulations,” the attorney said.
“Alright then, I’ll talk to you later.”

Boone grinned when he heard the phone click
in his ear. Word must have spread quickly if the district attorney
already knew. He picked up the folder, then walked to the fax. An
older model, he had to feed the pages one at a time through the
machine. He looked around the office as the clunker spun pages
through its optical scanner. “Where’s Boudin when I need him?”
Boone asked aloud.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Cerise’s cell phone buzzed against her hip.
She pulled it discreetly from her pocket, her eyes trained on her
husband, speaking at the back of the bookstore. Glancing down, she
frowned when the screen flashed the name of her mother’s assisted
living facility.

She stood, murmuring her regrets to the
others sitting nearby, then pressed the cell phone to her ear. “One
moment please,” she commanded to the person on the other end of the
phone call. She glanced towards the front of the room and caught
her husband’s eye. He faltered in mid-sentence, then she raised a
hand and gave a small shake of her head, gesturing for him to
continue, she’d be right back.

She hated to cause a scene and didn’t want to
panic before knowing what the problem was with Mother. She walked
through the swinging door of the ladies restroom.

Lifting the cell phone to her ear, she said,
“This is Cerise Larouche. Is my mother okay?”

She didn’t recognize the voice on the other
end, but that wasn’t unusual. The evening nursing staff rotated
between second and third shift on a bi-weekly basis.

“Mrs. Larouche, your mother fine, but there
are police officers here who would like to speak with her. This is
highly irregular and since you’re her emergency contact, we’d like
you to be present when they meet her.”

Cerise stomach clenched and she involuntarily
raised a hand to her mouth. Bile burned her esophagus, the bitter
taste making her mouth water.

“Mrs. Larouche, are you there?”

Calm down, calm down, she told herself. She
took a deep, shaky breath. “Yes, I’m here. I will be there in ten
minutes. Please ask them to wait for me before saying anything to
my Mother.”

“Yes ma’am,” the nurse said. “Is there
anything we can do?”

“Keep them away from my Mother. I’m on my
way.”

She hung up the cell phone and stared into
the bathroom mirror into the eyes of the frightened twelve-year-old
Cherry Jefferson and tried not to scream.

Cerise shoved aside the glass door and rushed
to the front desk, startling the night clerk. Out of the corner of
her eye, she saw two men rise from the sofa in the lounge. She
turned and watched them approach. Her abrupt entry and the stricken
look on her face alerted them that their contact had arrived.

“Mrs. Larouche?” one of the uniformed police
officers asked.

“Yes, I am Cerise Larouche,” she said, her
voice shaking. “What’s going on here?”

The second officer, an older policeman with
years of experience, registered her fearful defiance. She obviously
knew why they were present and planned to bluster.

The younger officer held out a folded piece
of paper. “Ma’am, we’re here with a warrant for the arrest of Mrs.
Ethel Jefferson Fontenelle on an open count of murder.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Cerise sputtered. “My
mother is an old and sick woman. You can’t do this.”

The young officer shuffled the paper from
hand to hand, uncomfortable with his task.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry to tell you we can,” he
said. “According to Mrs. Fontenelle’s personal physician, she is
physically and mentally able to be transported to the city
jail.”

Cerise stiffened her spine. “I insist on
calling my attorney.”

“Please do so, madam,” the older officer
said, speaking for the first time. “Meanwhile, we need to process
this warrant. We waited as a courtesy for you. You may accompany us
to your mother’s room,” he added in a kind voice. He lifted his
hand, gesturing towards the corridor. “Please lead the way.”

“Can I see her first? Alone?” Cerise asked,
her frantic eyes darting from one man to the other.

The younger officer deferred to his mentor,
who shook his head.

Resigned, Cerise turned her back on the two
and walked towards her mother’s room. It wasn’t late and she could
hear multiple televisions tuned to “Wheel of Fortune” as she padded
down the hall. She tried to breathe evenly, inhaling the
mentholated air through her nose. It burned, but her throat burned
more. She tried to swallow as bile once again surged. For a moment,
she worried she wouldn’t be able to do it. Her step faltered and
she lifted a hand to her lips. The officers behind slowed to a
stop.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” the younger man
asked.

Instead of answering, she continued walking.
When she reached her mother’s room, her hand hesitated on the door
knob. Inside was quiet except for the soft murmur of the radio. Her
mother didn’t watch television often, as did most of the other
residents. She preferred to read, or listen to music while she
knitted, although she did like the daytime dramas. When Cerise
opened the door, her mother looked up from the needles and yarn in
her lap. A broad smile lit up the Ethel’s face and she set aside
her task.

“Cerise, what a welcome surprise ….”

Her soft voice tapered off when she saw her
daughter’s horror-stricken face and the uniformed men behind
her.

Fifty years dissolved and she was in a log
cabin on a lonely, Pennsylvania mountainside, standing over a dead
man. For the past half-century, not a day passed without the
specter of Roy Gaumer looking over her shoulder. She never doubted
this moment would come. She welcomed it.

She closed her eyes, whispered a prayer of
thanks, and then lifted her chin regally. “Come in, gentlemen. I’ve
been expecting you.”

Two hours later, Cerise sat in a hard,
plastic chair in the lobby of the local jail. Her jaw ached, her
back hurt and she was nauseous. It hurt to breathe, as if a load of
bricks pressed on her chest.