Borrowing Death (15 page)

His tone was low and menacing, and Charlotte was sure Adam hadn't heard it upstairs.

Indignation vied with wariness, keeping her nerves on edge. She'd expected him to be curt, angry even, but threatening?

“Finding the truth
is
my business, Mr. Kenner. That's what journalists do.”

He leaned closer, his beard and mustache unable to cover his sneer. Whatever he'd had for lunch had had copious amounts of garlic. “Stay out of my way.”

Charlotte swallowed hard but refused to avert her gaze.

Otto continued down the stairs, yanked open the door, then slammed it closed behind him. The glass rattled hard enough she feared it would shatter.

Charlotte pressed her palm to her chest, over her racing heart. She hadn't considered Otto getting physical with her, but he was certainly intimidating when he wanted to be. Avoiding him sounded like the most prudent course for now.

Allowing herself to calm down, Charlotte straightened her dress and smoothed her hair before continuing up to Adam Kenner's office. She peeked around the frame. Adam was at his cherrywood desk, his back to the window. One hand threaded through his hair, elbow on the desk, as he shuffled papers and compared them to the entries in a ledger. More papers and files were piled off to the side.

Three mismatched wood cabinets took up most of the space left in the small office. An adding machine and typewriter were on a roll-away cart behind the desk, and additional ledgers were stacked on the cabinets. A single straight-backed chair was in front of the desk. There was just enough floor space to open the door without hitting anything.

Charlotte knocked lightly on the door. “Mr. Kenner?”

Adam lifted his head. He was a good-looking man, with dark eyes framed by long, black lashes. There was intelligence and sensitivity in those eyes, a gentleness in his fine-boned face that was missing from his raw-hewn brother. Though even with all the differences, you could see the Kenners were related.

“Miss Brody.” He stood and smoothed back his black, curly hair. “Did we have an appointment?”

She stepped into the office. “No, I wanted to ask you a few things, if you have a moment.”

Curiosity flickered in his eyes. “Please, have a seat.”

She sat on the edge of the offered chair. Adam waited for her to get comfortable, then took his seat. “Please excuse the disorganization. I'm still getting settled.”

“You were working out of your home for some time, is that right?”

A shadow of irritation crossed his face. Otto must have told him about finding Charlotte at their house.

Not wanting to admit any more, she quickly added, “Your advertisement in the newspaper always listed your home address.”

He relaxed a little. “Oh, yes. I still keep a home office. Mostly for Otto's business. I mean, our business. We're partners. But I wanted a separate space for other work.”

Charlotte smiled. “That makes sense.”

“What can I do for you, Miss Brody? Do you have some questions about investments or concerns of a financial nature?”

Obvious reasons to come to an accountant, though her salary from the
Times
and the small payments from
Modern Woman
didn't amount to enough to require assistance. Her savings had been pretty well spent to fund the trip to Alaska, and a small trust fund from her grandparents was under her parents' financial control until she married or turned thirty. Grandmother and Grandfather had been a bit old-fashioned requiring that stipulation.

“I'm not exactly rolling in cash, Mr. Kenner.”

The flicker of light in anticipation of income faded in his eyes. “I could still help you with a budget. Sometimes
not
having much is more difficult to manage.”

Her immediate instinct to lie to him about needing his services caught in her throat. She didn't think Adam Kenner had the personality to intentionally harm anyone, even his lover's husband. Of course, anything was possible, and he might be guilty as sin. Then again, he might not. But either way, Charlotte had the inkling Adam knew something.

“I didn't come here seeking financial advice, Mr. Kenner. I came about the Fiskes.”

The worst he could do was throw her out, right?

Adam cocked his head, bemused, then understanding dawned. “You want to know if I had anything to do with Lyle's death.”

Charlotte blinked at him, surprised he'd cut to the heart of the matter like that. Adam may have been the quieter, kinder of the Kenner brothers, but he wasn't one to dance around either. “It crossed my mind.”

“Is that why you were in our house, Miss Brody? Looking for evidence?”

She squirmed a little under the very rightful accusation. Avoiding the question, she asked, “What were your feelings toward Lyle?”

Adam Kenner stared at her for several moments, his warm brown eyes never leaving hers. “I hated him.”

The admission should have surprised her, but it didn't. Though Adam Kenner didn't seem like the sort to hate anyone, your lover's husband was probably a good candidate. And if you were Lyle Fiske, the reverse was probably true as well. Lots of potential for emotions getting out of control and someone doing something unfortunate.

“Any particular reason?”

Anger hardened Adam's gaze. “For all the pretense Lyle and Caroline showed in public, their relationship was difficult.”

That seemed obvious, given that Caroline took a lover and Lyle visited the local brothels. But Charlotte didn't think that was what Adam referred to. She held her tongue—no easy task—and waited for him to continue.

“Lyle was a mean-spirited little man,” Adam said. “Out in public and at parties, he was friendly enough, showed Caroline a certain amount of affection, if not love.” His eyebrows came together. “But in private, he was abusive.”

“He hurt her?” It wouldn't be unusual for a supposedly quiet, affectionate man to use his fists behind closed doors. Charlotte had seen it more than a few times reporting on marital disturbances when she was first starting out. Caroline had never sported a telltale black eye, as far as Charlotte knew, but that meant little.

Adam shook his head. “No, not physically. Despite their mutual agreement to live separate lives, he treated her like one of his children, maybe even with less consideration. Caroline's smart, a savvy business woman, but Lyle ignored almost all of her suggestions or called her stupid for trying to be more than the pretty thing on his arm when it suited. He threatened to cut her off, financially, more than once when she challenged him.”

Everyone Charlotte had spoken to, including Caroline, had implied Caroline was an equal partner in the marriage, and close to that when it came to the hardware store. Wishful thinking? A delusion that was formed and manipulated by Lyle, then perpetuated to make their relationship more amiable than it really was? Another pattern of marital abuse.

“Caroline must have been upset by the charade,” she said.

“She put up with his behavior for years.” Adam shrugged, but was it in resignation or understanding that women were compelled to do such things? “She kept telling me it was fine, that she could handle him. That her patience—our patience— would be rewarded. But I saw how it wore on her. Every day, she seemed to fade a little more.”

His expression shifted when he spoke of Caroline, softening with concern. Charlotte wasn't sure how Caroline felt about him, but she'd bet her bottom dollar that Adam Kenner was head over heels, deeply in love with Caroline Fiske.

Could that love, combined with his hatred of Lyle, overcome Adam's seemingly gentle nature? People did crazy things over matters of the heart.

But was he the instigator, or could Caroline have purposely set him on Lyle by talking up her husband's abuses? Did she convince Adam that getting rid of Lyle was the only way they'd be happy together?

“Lyle's death must have been somewhat a relief for her.” Charlotte knew she was taking a risk by questioning his lover's emotions, but it had to be done.

“You'd think,” he said, looking puzzled, “but she's been devastated. The loss of that damn box and the papers inside means she doesn't have the latest copy of Lyle's will. If their lawyer down in Seattle doesn't have a copy, it could mean Lyle's children from his first marriage are his sole beneficiaries. But more than that, she's been truly saddened by his death.” Adam shook his head again, saddened and confused. “I just don't understand.”

Neither did Charlotte, considering how Adam described the Fiskes. Though she certainly understood how people lied to themselves about relationships.

Adam fell into a thoughtful silence, but Charlotte had a few more questions to explore.

“On my way up, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with Otto.” Well, Otto's end of the conversation, but that was neither here nor there. “What did he mean by you're both getting what you want now that Lyle's gone?”

The color on Adam's cheeks deepened, though from anger or embarrassment, Charlotte couldn't tell. “He didn't mean anything by it,” Adam said. “Just that with Lyle gone, Caroline and I will be able to have a more public relationship. After an appropriate mourning period, of course.”

“Of course. But what does Otto gain by Lyle's death?”

Charlotte had an idea, but would Adam confirm it?

“Nothing to gain or lose,” he said. “The relationship was purely business. Otto and Lyle were not friends, but their head-butting would never . . .” The words lost conviction momentarily, then Adam recovered, supporting his brother as brothers did. “No, Otto wasn't keen on Lyle Fiske, but he'd never do anything like that.”

Adam stood abruptly, his chair scraping across the wood floor. “If you'll excuse me, Miss Brody, I have some work to do.”

Charlotte rose, a pang of regret making her heart heavy. She hadn't wanted Adam to consider his brother or lover as suspects, but the possibility was there. The Kenners and Caroline Fiske had a lot to gain with Lyle out of the way.

“I appreciate you talking to me, Mr. Kenner. When Deputy Eddington deems it allowable, I'll make sure the truth is put into the newspaper. Leaving out your personal connection to Caroline, of course.”

“I appreciate that. Good evening, Miss Brody.”

Charlotte shook his offered hand and left the office.

On the way down the stairs, she considered Adam's claim that Otto wouldn't have hurt Lyle. She couldn't quite believe that herself, but siblings often had a skewed view of each other. And often a fierce sense of loyalty. Adam would probably cover for Otto, and Otto for Adam. Just as she and Michael would do for each other.

I
t seemed to Charlotte she was spending all her time either at the café or the
Times
office. She really needed to expand her repertoire of locations. Perhaps she'd take in a matinee at the Empress or challenge Michael to a midday bowling match. In the meantime, however, hunger pangs drew her to the café that Saturday morning.

All the tables were full by the time she arrived at eight o'clock, the cold and dark bringing Cordovans together for a hot meal and lively discussion of the news of the day. It made her smile to see the
Times
laid out on tables while readers talked and gestured at a particular article. Love it or hate it, if a piece of writing stirred emotion, it was a good one.

At a table in the corner with three other men, his back to the wall, James Eddington looked up from his plate and their eyes met. Charlotte's heart gave a little jump. They hadn't spoken to each other since James had locked her up, and neither had made the effort to clear the air of that or allow him to explain Stella. Luckily, now wasn't the time either. She gave him a quick nod of recognition then sat at the counter.

Henry carried two plates in from the kitchen and delivered them to a table. The four men there barely paused in their conversation. Seeing Charlotte as he scanned the dining area for anyone who needed him, Henry grinned. “Morning, Miss Brody. Be right with you.”

“No hurry,” she said, unbuttoning her coat. Beside her was Tom Gint, manager of one of the clam canneries, eating eggs and drinking coffee. “Good morning, Mr. Gint.”

“Mornin'. How goes the newspaper business, Miss Brody?”

“Always something different. Otherwise it wouldn't be news, I guess. How's the cannery business?”

“Kinda stinky, but good. Interestin' bit you wrote on the Volstead Act the other day.” From his casual tone, it was difficult to tell if Mr. Gint was in agreement with her or the Temperance League. He nodded then, leaning toward her, and winked. “It sure got those ladies all a-squawking, didn't it?”

Smiling, Charlotte whispered, “That's my job, now, isn't it, Mr. Gint? To get people squawking?”

She winked and straightened on her stool.

Mr. Gint laughed. “Sure as hell is.” He tapped the folded copy of the paper beside his plate. “Says here them miners striking in the States are lookin' to unionize.”

Charlotte glanced at the article. She remembered some of the details from reading it last night. “The idea is gaining traction. What's your opinion on the matter?”

Henry reappeared and set a cup of coffee, cream, and sugar in front of her. He didn't take her order right then, which was fine by Charlotte; she wasn't sure what she wanted yet.

“Well, I reckon a fair day's work deserves a fair day's pay,” Mr. Gint said. “But no one likes to be bullied into doin' anything. Even if it's the right thing.”

“That's true.” Charlotte sipped her coffee. With the café being so busy, it was fresh and hot and strong. She added a little more sugar. “Though sometimes polite requests get ignored and people are forced to make their cases heard by any means available.”

A man down the counter from Gint joined in with his two cents. “Them guys work in hellish conditions. Men and kids dyin' from greedy bastards not wantin' to part with a dollar or two for basic safety. Pardon the language, ma'am. We got it better up at Kennecott, but it still ain't easy.”

“It's dangerous work, for sure, Bill,” Gint said. “The owners need to pony up and make it right.”

The copper miner supported his coal mining brethren while Gint explained to him how managers were caught in the middle. Charlotte and the two men engaged in a discussion on pay scale and unionization, interrupted only by Henry taking her order for scrambled eggs and toast.

As Charlotte ate, listening to them when her mouth was full, an unexpected figure coming out of the kitchen caught her eye. Rebecca Derenov carried a tray laden with clean cups, saucers, and silverware, arms straining to keep the tray level. Her black hair was tied back in a tail, covered with a kerchief, and she wore a white apron over her simple dress. Rebecca set the tray on the rear counter and started replacing the dish- and silverware that had been used through the busy morning.

“Rebecca,” Charlotte said, getting the girl to look up and pause in her task. “I didn't know you worked here.”

She gave Charlotte a quizzical look, then recognition dawned. She divided her attention between stacking and Charlotte. “Oh, hello, Miss Brody. Yeah, I just started this week. After school and on weekends.”

“You'll still have time to study, won't you?” Remembering her conversation with Michael about how a number of students left school after the eighth grade, Charlotte hoped the answer was yes.

“Well,” Rebecca said, drawing out the word and not meeting Charlotte's eye. “So far, it hasn't been a problem. I'm kinda beat when I get home, then there's chores to do. I've been doing well in school this year, so I don't need to study a whole lot.”

“I hope your school work doesn't suffer,” Charlotte said. “A young woman such as yourself can go far with a proper education.”

A pained expression flickered across Rebecca's face. “I know, but with Ben only getting part-time work, we need the money.” She fiddled with a ring on a string around her neck. Charlotte caught a flash of gold and red between her fingers. “I have to help where I can.”

“I understand.” Charlotte bit her lip to keep from pressing the girl. By the dark circles under her eyes, she was already losing sleep.

Rebecca rubbed the ring between her fingers for another few seconds, then slipped it under the neckline of her dress. “I better get back to work.”

“Take care, Rebecca.” Charlotte had never meant the sentiment more in her life.

Rebecca snatched up the tray and hurried into the kitchen as Henry came out.

Charlotte sighed with renewed dismay at the Derenov situation. Was Rebecca going to be able to stay in school? Not if Ben couldn't get a regular job. And if they moved out of Cordova, who's to say a larger city wouldn't require both of them to work in order to survive? Perhaps there was someone in town she could convince to give Ben a break. Mr. Gint, maybe?

Before she had the chance to ask, Gint and the other man rose, doffed their hats to bade her good day, and paid their bills. Charlotte didn't want to discuss Ben Derenov here in public anyway, and made a mental note to visit the cannery. It was very possible Ben had already applied and been turned down.

“Done with your breakfast, Miss Brody?” Henry's question pulled her from the depressing scenario involving the Derenovs.

“I am, thank you.” She opened her purse and left enough to cover the food and a tip.

“Any other leads on that arsonist?” Henry glanced up at her as he deposited the coins in the till, an odd expression of concern on his smooth face.

The question had come from left field. Charlotte hadn't written anything else about the arsonist since the fire. “Not really. Why, have you heard anything?”

Henry was a good source for tidbits. Usually nothing so earth-shattering, but local gossip was as good as it got some news days.

He shook his head and closed the till. “Nope. Just wondering. Have a good day, Miss Brody.”

Something wasn't right. “Henry?”

The boy raised his head. His usually open and happy demeanor was shadowed by worry. And perhaps fear. What was going on?

“Come talk to me later,” Charlotte said. “I'll be at the office or at home.”

Without any indication he'd do as she asked, Henry turned on his heel and hurried into the kitchen.

Charlotte buttoned her coat as she walked to the door. Maybe she was a busybody, but her concern for the people in her life was real. Henry was obviously anxious about something to do with the arsonist, and as his friend, as well as his more-or-less superior at the newspaper, she was compelled to find out what was bothering him.

Before she could grab the handle, someone reached around her to pull open the door.

“Allow me, Miss Brody.” James's drawl tickled her ear as he leaned forward.

She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

He smiled, showing that damn dimple.

Out on the walkway, under the electric streetlight, neither moved on.

James set his hat on his head and squinted up at the still-dark sky. “They say more snow's on its way.”

“Are you fond of winter activities, deputy? Skiing? Sleigh rides? That sort of thing?”

“Snowball fights,” he said, pantomiming tossing a snowball and winking.

She laughed, imagining him as a boy engaged in an all-out battle with his brothers and friends.

“Do you have a minute, Charlotte?” He was smiling, though there was a hint of apprehension in his eyes.

A flurry of excuses about getting to work or being cold ran through her brain, but Charlotte knew that at some point they'd need to talk. He'd been hesitant the other night, and her stint in his jail had overshadowed more personal concerns. She'd been more than willing to put off the inevitable out of fear of being expected to reciprocate. It was probably harder for him to get up the nerve to talk to her about Stella than it was for Charlotte to keep her own struggles bottled inside; she'd become quite good at showing a different face to those around her.

Besides, her curiosity about the reserved deputy's relationship with the flamboyant Stella got the better of her. “Of course.”

James gestured for her to walk down the street toward his office. They passed a few people going in the opposite direction on their way to work or Saturday errands, greeting those folks but not speaking a word to each other. As they drew closer to the federal building, Charlotte was getting antsy. She preferred it when their conversation was light and easy, a friendly chat at one of their offices, or over a meal or a cup of tea. While she was sometimes at a loss for what to say to James, this awkward silence between them wasn't normal.

Charlotte angled toward the outer door of the building, but James touched her arm. “I'd like to walk a little, if that's all right.”

She nodded and shoved her hands into her pockets. What did he need to say that he didn't want Marshal Blaine to hear?

They walked under the last electric light on Main Street. With just a hint of light from the sun peeking over the mountains and the lights from the scant houses set back from the road, Charlotte had to watch her footing along the frozen mud and pockets of slush.

“Blaine thinks looking into the relationship Otto Kenner had with Lyle Fiske could have some merit,” James said.

Charlotte's head came up. Blaine's take on the murder was not the topic of conversation she'd expected, and it took her a moment to get into the right mindset. “Do you think Otto knows anything about Lyle's death?”

He shook his head. “Hard to say. I talked to Fiske's employees. The two got into it over material costs and such. Kenner thought Fiske was charging more than he needed to.”

“I'm sure a lot of customers feel that way at times,” she said, “especially here. That might explain why Otto was buying his own supplies directly.”

“Maybe so, but from what you said about quantity, I can't understand how Kenner could afford to purchase so much. There's no way he was working enough jobs this time of year to cover those expenses.” James's brow furrowed as it often did when he was mulling the facts of a case.

Charlotte didn't understand it either, though she had no inkling of how much material a builder needed for a bookcase, let alone a house. Hundreds of pounds of nails as they headed into winter did seem excessive. Even if Otto had motive to kill Lyle, what about opportunity?

“Where was Otto that night?” she asked. “For that matter, where was Adam?”

“Still considering the lover-husband quarrel angle? I don't know. I'll talk to them, but I'm willing to bet they'll have alibis for each other.”

“I'm not taking a sucker's bet.”

James laughed.

“Does Marshal Blaine know about Otto having me arrested?”

“You were never officially charged, just held.”

“For most of the morning,” she reminded him.

In the dimness of the new day, she could see James give her a sidelong glance. “Count yourself lucky Kenner didn't press for formal charges, or bring you to the constables' office for that matter. I didn't bother to log any of it in, so no, Blaine doesn't know anything about it.”

She did count herself lucky, and she was grateful James had gone to bat for her. That he had also taken her suspicions seriously enough to consult with the marshal meant he trusted her instincts, even when she was being reckless. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

He shrugged as if it was no big deal, but they both knew he'd taken a risk. “I saw no reason for Blaine to hear about
not
charging you.”

“Treading a fine line there, deputy.”

“Just saving us both a bit of trouble, Miss Brody.”

Charlotte laughed. The exchange of banter was much better than the tension of the last few days. She hadn't realized just how much she'd missed it until now.

She would have been happy to have the conversation end at that, on a friendly note. But they walked on, without any indication that James was done with what he had to say. The bite of burning coal and the clatter of cars on rails grew stronger and louder. Men's voices carried on the chilled air, and shadowed figures hurried about the rail yard under bright lights.