Walking away, her thoughts focused to a razor-sharp edge. What Julia needed was a way to get rid of Bridgette Colton. But how?
Chapter 6
Bridgette spent her morning at the office and with the local staff. Going on much of the information provided by Ernest, her father’s previous foreman, the team brainstormed possible causes of the cancer. The waters of nearby Lake Kanopolis. A naturally occurring carcinogen in the soil. Asbestos in the old elementary school. To Bridgette, none of the theories carried the ring of truth.
If it were something as common as lake water, the soil or the school, the number of illnesses would be at the level of an epidemic and not merely a cluster. Besides, each person in the case was male and of a similar age. There had to be something more that connected the men to one another.
Still, each theory needed to be examined and tested. With the team gathered around the communal conference table, Bridgette ended the meeting by giving out assignments. “Adam, I want you and Carson to collect water and soil samples. Send them to the state lab and tell them we need the results stat.”
“We’re on it,” said Adam.
With a nod, Bridgette continued, “Rachel, can you do some research on the old school? Are there other types of cancers that we’re missing in the area, and if so, what are they?”
“What will you be up to, boss?” Carson asked.
“I’m going to look into the lives of each of the men on our list. My guess, there’s something connecting them all. Something small. We just need to find that needle buried in the haystack.”
After her coworkers left to do their respective jobs, Bridgette spent a few hours researching on the internet. There were eleven men in total, but she focused on three—Ernest O’Rourke, Bill Warner and Tom Cromwell.
Tom Cromwell had passed away long before the age of social media. Bill Warner had no presence on the internet, so there were no posts for her to stalk. Bridgette was able to access the archives for the Wichita paper, and there she found the obituary for each man. Bill Warner was divorced and survived by two children, who were both teenagers at the time of his death. She scribbled the names of the children on a piece of paper and made a note to look them up later. Tom Cromwell had been married when he passed away and had four children, ages ranging from five years old to preteens. Bridgette wasn’t sure how much the kids, who now were all adults, could add to her investigation. But if Tom’s widow was still alive, she certainly could.
A quick internet search gave Bridgette the widow’s name and phone number. Since the office phone showed up on any caller ID as the Kansas State Department of Health, Bridgette used an old handset and placed the call.
The call was answered on the second ring. “Hello?” a female asked. Her voice was thin, and Bridgette guessed she was speaking to Cromwell’s widow.
“My name is Bridgette Colton, with the Kansas State Department of Health,” she began, official as always. “Is this Mrs. Cromwell?”
“It is.”
“I’m calling in regard to your late husband, Tom. I’m in Braxville, looking into a cluster of cancer cases. The name of your former husband has come up in our investigation.”
“Cancer? That was years ago.”
“I know it was, ma’am, but the state of Kansas has some follow-up questions.”
“It’s been two decades and now you care?”
Bridgette had expected some resistance, but what was she supposed to say to that? “Mrs. Cromwell, I work out of Wichita, but I grew up right here in Braxville. Something has made several of our community members sick and I’m determined to find out what it was.” Or is.
“What’d you say your name was?”
“Bridgette. Bridgette Colton.” Small towns being what they are, she added, “I know your husband used to work for my father. I spoke with Ernest yesterday. He said that your late husband was one of his best friends.”
“I suppose you could stop by,” said Mrs. Cromwell, her reluctance beginning to wane.
“When?” asked Bridgette.
“I have an appointment at noon,” the woman began.
Glancing over her shoulder, Bridgette looked at the wall clock. It was 9:45 a.m. “I can get to your house by quarter past ten,” she said. “I swear to be gone by eleven thirty.” In fact, the timing worked out perfectly for Bridgette. After all, she had promised to have lunch with her mother today.
“Well, I suppose that would be all right. Let me give you my address.”
Despite the fact that Bridgette had used the state’s database to find the woman, she waited patiently as the widow repeated the street name and house number. “I’ll be by in a few minutes,” said Bridgette, ending the call.
A cloudless Kansas sky stretched out before disappearing over the edges of an endless horizon. The Cromwell house was located on the edge of Braxville, where farmland and town meet. The home was a small square, with two windows on the second floor. The front door was in the middle of the ground level, along with a stoop, round and edged with brick.
As Bridgette pulled onto the gravel shoulder, she couldn’t help but notice that the front of the house looked like a surprised face. As if the home itself was shocked by her arrival.
The door opened and a woman stood on the threshold. Until now, Bridgette had a mental image of an elderly woman with a home perm and a floral housecoat. Mrs. Cromwell was tall—nearly as tall as Bridgette—with jet-black hair. She wore a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved striped T-shirt. A golden cross hung from a chain around her neck.
“You must be Bridgette,” she said, extending her palm to shake. “You look a good bit like your mother.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, Mrs. Cromwell,” said Bridgette, shaking the woman’s hand.
“You should. Lilly is good people.” Pivoting toward the door, she continued, “Come on in and call me Trish.”
The front door led directly to a small living room. There was a floral sofa, coordinating recliner and a brick fireplace. A wooden coffee table sat in the middle of it all. A flat-screen TV hung above the empty hearth. Trish lowered herself onto one end of the sofa. Bridgette settled into the recliner.
A stack of papers and photo albums sat in the middle of the coffee table. Trish picked up the top item in the pile. It was a clipping from an old newspaper. She handed it to Bridgette. “That’s my husband’s obituary. He died almost eighteen years ago. Sometimes it seems like he’s been gone a century. Other times,” she said, and shrugged, “I forget that he won’t be coming home.”
Although Bridgette’s job was to be investigate the cancer cases, not get involved with the subjects personally, her chest contracted as she listened to Trish speak. “I lost my husband, too,” she said. “Car accident, two years ago. I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen something that would make him laugh or heard something he’d find interesting. I’ll pick up the phone to call. Then it hits me that he’ll never answer, and it’s like losing him all over again.”
“I can’t say those moments ever go away, but they don’t happen as often.” Trish reached for a photo album. Pressing the book to her chest, she stroked the cover. “Time never heals any wounds, but it does dull the pain.”
“Thanks,” said Bridgette. Her eyes stung and she blinked away the tears that were threatening to fall. “That means a lot to talk to someone who knows—really knows—what it’s like.”
“Look at us,” said Trish. A single tear snaked down the side of her face. She wiped it away. “Spending the morning feeling sorry for ourselves. And you with a job to do. You said you wanted some information about my husband, so I dug all of this stuff out.” She handed Bridgette the album. A date, twenty years prior, was written in faded marker on the cover. “Back then, I was into scrapbooking. I took pictures of everything, then glued them into these things with little stickers and such. Anyway, that book is from the year he got sick.”
Bridgette flipped through the pages as Trish spoke. The first page was filled with pictures of a New Year’s Eve party. She recognized Ernest’s living room as not much had changed over the decades. In the middle of the page was a picture of Ernest, Tom and Bill. Arms were draped over one another’s shoulders. The trio were glassy-eyed, and more than a dozen beer bottles sat on the table in front of them. A banner over the photo read: The Three Amigos.
But was there more? By summer, all of these men would be seriously sick. Was there a hint of the illness that was to come even as they rang in the New Year?
Bridgette flipped through a few more pages. Family photos, mostly. Snowball fights. A Valentine’s party in an elementary school classroom. There was also a picture of Tom at work, his hair and face covered with plaster dust. He stood outside of one of the old Colton warehouses that became the downtown mall, Ruby Row Center. Bridgette remembered that project. It was the first big venture for Colton Construction. It launched the business from a small family-run company into the behemoth her father now ran.
The next picture was taken at the park near City Hall. Tom stood in front of a tree with branches covered in fluorescent green buds. It was obvious that he was ill. His face and arms were thin. His pallor was gray. His eyes were surrounded by dark circles.
“When was the first time you noticed your husband being sick?” Bridgette asked.
“He’d gotten what we thought was a cold around March. Aching. Sore throat. A cough that wouldn’t go away. He started missing work. Ernest tried to cover for Tom, but in the end your dad had to let him go.”
“I’m sorry,” said Bridgett.
“Don’t be. A man can’t work, he can’t expect to get paid. Anyway, your dad’s a good boss and Tom was lucky enough to be able to keep his health insurance. We went to the doctor, who figured out it was cancer right away. He got treatment in Wichita and the cancer went into remission. Then it came back a few years later. Well, I guess it was then that Tom’s luck had run out.”
“Your husband and his two best friends ended up with a rare cancer at the same time. Did they have any theories as to what caused their illnesses?”
“They used to have a few jokes,” said Trish. “Gallows humor, you’d call it.”
“I know, Ernest told me. They thought that my dad was such a difficult boss that it gave them all cancer.”
Trish gave a wry smile. “Ernest shouldn’t have said that to you. It was bad of him to tease you about your dad.”
“Don’t worry,” said Bridgette with a smile of her own. “I’m Fitz Colton’s daughter. I understand that he’s a hard man to please.” She paused. “Back then, what did you think?”
“Honestly, I thought that they were so close—closer even than brothers—that one couldn’t suffer without the others sharing the burden.”
“That’s very poignant,” said Bridgette. Too bad it lacked a shred of scientific evidence. “Tell me about your husband’s other jobs. Aside from Colton Construction when he got sick, where else did he work?”
Tom had a long list of jobs in manual labor. Most were in Kansas, but for a short while he had worked in Mississippi on an oil rig. The petroleum industry was notorious for using carcinogens in their processes, especially decades earlier, before awareness for worker safety had been raised.
While that might account for Tom developing cancer, it could hardly explain why anyone else had gotten sick. After spending an hour with Trish Cromwell, Bridgette had gotten a full history of the case. Still, she was no closer to solving the mystery of why so many in Braxville were stricken with cancer.
* * *
Bridgette pulled into the circular drive at her parents’ home and parked the car. Sure, her mom and dad’s constant arguing had spurred her to find her own place, but as she turned off the ignition she had to admit that it was nice to be home.
Bridgette was lost in thought. The reason for all the cancer cases was close, she could tell. But it was like looking for something she dropped in the grass on a foggy morning.
She opened the door without knocking and stepped inside. Even from the foyer, Bridgette could hear the raised voices of a man and woman in the midst of an argument. Was her father home? She hadn’t seen his truck.
Setting her bag by the door, Bridgette walked toward the sound. They were coming from the kitchen.
“I just really wish you’d stop pressuring me about this, Shep,” said her mother. “It’s none of your concern.”
Oh, so it was dad’s half-brother, Shepherd, newly retired from the navy, with whom her mother was arguing. Then again, that brought up a whole new set of questions. What did Uncle Shep want her mother to do? And why was it none of his business?
She approached the kitchen and watched them from the doorway. Her mother had her back to the breakfast bar, her arms folded across her chest. Shep stood just feet away from Lilly. Hand lifted, he reached out to touch her mother. He hesitated, letting his palm linger above her shoulder.
“Hey, guys,” said Bridgette a little brighter and louder than was necessary.
Her mother wiped her eyes quickly before turning. A smile lit up her face. “Oh, honey, you’re home. I made us grilled chicken salads and, for dessert, apple tarts. I hope you’re hungry.”
“If I wasn’t before,” said Bridgette. “I would be now.” She stepped into the kitchen and leaned into a hug from her uncle. “How’s the guesthouse?” she asked.
“Nicer than a lot of other places I’ve lived.”
“Shep just offered to move out and get an apartment in town so you could move back here,” said Lilly as she arranged chicken and greens on two plates.
“You stay where you are,” said Bridgette. Is that what had caused the quarrel? The fact that she’d moved from home when she would have stayed if the guesthouse were empty. Wanting to smooth any rough edges between her mother and uncle, she continued, “You’re already settled. Besides, being in town and close to work makes my life easier.”
“Thanks for understanding,” said Shep. “I better get going, I told your dad I’d stop by the office.”
He left the room. Lilly stared at the door even after Shep was gone. It left Bridgette searching for something to say. “Everything okay, Mom?” she asked after a moment.
“What?” Lilly asked. “Oh, of course. Everything’s fine.”
“You sure? You seem a little off.”
“I’ve been a little tired lately. I might be coming down with a cold.”
“Do you want to cancel the bonfire?”
“No, I’ll feel worse if the whole family doesn’t get together.” Lilly patted the bar stool. “Have a seat. Can I get you tea? Coffee? A soda?”
“Just water,” said Bridgette as she scooted onto the seat.
“Water it is,” said Lilly, filling up two glasses with ice and filtered water from a dispenser in the fridge. “Here you go,” she said, handing a glass to Bridgette.
As Bridgette took a sip, her mother slipped onto the bar stool to her left. Lifting a sheet of paper from the counter, Lilly said, “This is the quote I have from the caterer.”
Bridgette scanned the list of food, drinks and desserts. Her mother certainly had ordered a nice meal for family and friends. Yet, Bridgette had inherited a good bit of her father’s practicality and she choked a little as she looked at the total. “What if you changed the order to half ribs and half chicken, Mom? That way you give folks a variety and costs come down.”
“I guess I could do that,” said Lilly. “And maybe take away the green beans since I already have roasted squash and corn on the cob. Nobody expects too many vegetables at a barbecue, right?”
Scribbling numbers on the paper’s margin, Bridgette added up the new total. “That’s a number even Dad won’t complain about,” she said, setting the menu aside.
“Trust me,” said Lilly with a wry laugh. “Yo
ur father can complain about anything.”
“You know, Mom. I’m worried about you and Dad. You really don’t seem to get along at all.”
Lilly picked up her fork and pushed a piece of chicken across her plate. For a moment, Bridgette was left to wonder if her mother was going to say anything at all.
“I guess that’s what happens to old married couples,” she said at length. “It’s funny, but for years I was the bookkeeper for Colton Construction. It was a struggle. I had all of you kids to look after. A house to keep and a husband who loved his work.” She shook her head. “Those days, your dad and I would dream about having a big house and lots of money. Then it finally happened and look at us. We’re closer to miserable now than when we had nothing.” She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a napkin and gave a wan smile. “I guess that’s the definition of irony.”
Reaching for her mother’s hand, Bridgette said, “I’m sorry, Mom. Maybe you and Dad should take a vacation. You know, spend a little time together and reconnect.”
“Maybe,” said her mother in a way that made Bridgette think Lilly would do no such thing.
It seemed as if their conversation was at an end, and Bridgette hadn’t even finished half of her salad. But her mother had mentioned something that piqued her interest personally and professionally.
She said, “I didn’t know you used to help Dad with Colton Construction.”
Lilly lifted one slender shoulder and let it drop. “It was cheaper for me to do the work than it was to pay someone else. In fact, I was basically the office manager. I sent out the invoices, paid outstanding debts and processed all the paychecks. I even did the taxes for the first few years.”
“Do you have those old files?” Bridgette asked.
“Of course. You know how your father is about making sure we keep everything. Little good it would do. Technology is so much more advanced now. I don’t know of any computer that can read a floppy disk nowadays.”
Lilly’s statement left Bridgette cold. Yesterday she’d asked her father for employee information. His answer was that he didn’t have records from twenty years ago. Had her father lied? Or maybe he’d simply forgotten?
Colton's Secret History Page 7