Borrowing Death (21 page)

“The drugstore usually orders some, but they're always running out. It's faster, easier, and actually cheaper for us to buy them from a . . . private supplier. We keep a small stock on hand here, as do most of the houses.”

“That makes sense.” Customers and girls alike stayed healthy that way. Her brother, Michael, who gave the girls regular exams, probably appreciated it too.

“But I'll have to find another source and renegotiate services now that Fiske is dead.”

Surprise jerked Charlotte to the edge of her chair. “Fiske? He was your supplier?”

She had assumed it was Otto and had been prepared to warn Brigit of his pending arrest.

“I told you he was making more money than the store's books would show.” Brigit pressed her lips together. “You can't let that get out, even though he's dead.”

“I won't spill the beans, I promise,” Charlotte said. “I guess pawning small items and jewelry wasn't all that profitable.”

“Not if people couldn't afford to buy back their things. I'd imagine Fiske was selling some of what he kept to other people in town, or shipping items down to the States and getting money that way. It's the only way he'd make anything on them.”

“But his black market business was doing well.”

“Yes,” Brigit said, sounding impressed. “It was quite the operation as I understand. He'd bring in the standard stuff—booze and the like—but was also able to get specialty items. A partner in the shipyard in Seattle repacked crates for him when he ordered for his store.”

Was that how Otto Kenner ran his side business as well? Was the competition between the men for more than their legitimate business reasons? That would certainly add to Otto's motive for killing Lyle. If he killed Lyle, which it was looking to be more and more likely to Charlotte.

“I wonder if James knows about Fiske?” He'd been suspicious of Otto's over-ordering, but if they hadn't searched the warehouse and found the bottles of whiskey Otto could have explained the excess hardware goods away as starting his own store. Fiske already had his cover.

“Doubtful,” Brigit said, “or he would have raided the store long ago. The marshal's office probably suspected a number of retailers here, but without complaint or evidence . . .” She shrugged and shook her head, indicating the marshal and James having had little to no chance at catching Fiske.

“Do you know if Lyle kept records?” Charlotte asked. If so, maybe those were in the black book as well.

“I have no idea. I'm sure he had inventory and purchase lists for the store, but those would cover for the other items he brought in. He telegraphed or telephoned his contact in Seattle to place orders.”

“Slick as a whistle, wasn't he? Providing folks who were hard up with loans they couldn't pay back, but making money selling contraband and hard-to-get goods.” Charlotte wasn't sure if she hated the man or admired his initiative. Though after learning how he treated Caroline, she was closer to hating him.

“I can appreciate his business acumen, but Lyle Fiske was only interested in looking out for Lyle Fiske,” Brigit said, her dark eyes hard. “If he'd been backed into a corner, he would have ratted on all of us who used his services.”

No love lost between Brigit and Lyle, that was obvious.

“Had he ever threatened to do anything of the sort?”

“Only if I complained about his high prices, and not in so many words.” Brigit's mouth twitched into a wry grin. “But I didn't kill him, if that's what you're asking.”

“Of course I'm not,” she assured her friend. “I would think he could have threatened to do the same with a rival.”

“I'm sure he was quite capable of making that threat. And following through.”

Another reason, perhaps, for Otto to get into it with Fiske. But all Charlotte had was “supposes” and “what-ifs.” She was itching to talk to James. He'd ask Otto all the right questions that might trip up the carpenter and get him to confess to the murder.

“Charlotte, while I have you here, can I ask you a favor?” Brigit sat on the edge of her chair, hands clasped in her lap, apprehension in her eyes.

Charlotte covered Brigit's hands with her own. “Anything. Except I won't work for you.”

Brigit smiled slightly, though not with the same amusement she usually got from Charlotte's denial. Her asking Charlotte to join the house and Charlotte's refusal had become a playful exchange between them. “Never say never, but no, that's not it. I'm headed south for a month or so. Can you look in on the girls while I'm gone? Mr. Larsen will be here, but they'll talk to you if there's something they can't go to him about.”

“Of course. I can do that.” She'd miss having Brigit around for so long, but it wasn't worth it to travel to the States for anything less than a couple of weeks. “Can I ask where you're headed?”

“Tess, Charlie, and I are going to Cincinnati to visit Camille's grave and attend a memorial.” She lifted her chin. Her eyes were hard behind the shine of unshed tears. “Then I'm going to look for the doctor who killed her and make the bastard pay.”

“P
ay? How?” Charlotte couldn't believe Brigit would do anything drastic, but her anger and grief made it a possibility. Her hands turned ice cold. Numb, she grasped Brigit's fingers. “Brigit, no, you can't. What good would it do?”

As much as she hurt for her friend, she couldn't condone an act of vengeance like the one Brigit might be planning. Yes, the doctor who'd pushed Camille out of his office was responsible for her death. There was no denying that. But kill him?

“He deserves to die.”

Brigit spoke in a low, reasonable tone. She wasn't hysterical. She wasn't beating her breast, shouting cries of anguish. There was sadness behind the determination in her eyes, and a coldness in her voice that scared the hell out of Charlotte.

“Camille trusted her life to that man, but he was more concerned with saving his own ass than keeping her alive. He had his money and didn't care that she would go home and quietly bleed to death. Too many women have to put their lives in the hands of men like that.” Brigit closed her eyes, slowly shaking her head. “You don't understand, Charlotte.”

“I do. I know exactly what's at stake.” Charlotte's mouth dried, her throat tight as if gripped by a fist. Getting Brigit to see that she did understand might be the only thing to keep her grieving friend from doing something foolish. “I know what women in Camille's position have to risk. What I risked.”

Brigit stilled. She opened her eyes and stared at Charlotte as if seeing her for the first time. “You?”

“Over a year ago,” Charlotte said. She moistened her chapped lips as best she could with her mouth like sand. “I—” A tremor went through her chest, stopping the words.

Brigit patted her hand and rose. She went over to a sideboard and opened the cabinet. Retrieving an elaborately etched bottle and two tumblers, she returned to where they were sitting. She pulled the stopper, poured them each a couple of fingers of amber liquid, and handed a glass to Charlotte. “The really good stuff I bring in for myself.”

Charlotte attempted to smile but couldn't. She drank instead. The bourbon went down smoothly, warming her throat and belly. “Thank you.”

Brigit sat, silently sipping her drink as Charlotte gathered her thoughts. Despite her assertions of being a “modern woman,” there was so much stigma and shame attached to what she'd done. Even good friends and relatives had turned on women who'd made choices like hers. Only Kit and Michael knew her secret, and now Brigit.

What if Brigit felt like those others she'd heard about? She was angry at the doctor responsible for Camille's death, but how did she feel about Camille's decision? That was what scared Charlotte the most, especially since she didn't feel like she or Camille had done anything wrong, that it was no one else's business but their own. She didn't want to lose Brigit's friendship over this.

It was too late to turn back now. The words, the feelings, built up in her chest like floodwaters threatening to breach a dam.

“It's a long story,” she began. Then she told Brigit everything. Everything about meeting Richard and attending lectures, about going to parties and dances with him, about being charmed by his wit and good looks. About enthusiastically going to his bed. “God, he was amazing.”

Brigit smiled knowingly but didn't interrupt. Charlotte told her how Richard had agreed that women should be allowed to determine their own destinies, to make their own decisions about what their lives would be.

“Except he wasn't keen on the idea of
me
doing it if it impeded
his
destiny.” She gave a harsh laugh and drank the last of the bourbon in her glass in a single gulp.

“He used you.” Brigit said, pouring her another.

Charlotte shook her head. “No, he fooled me, and maybe I fooled myself, but he didn't use me. I was enjoying it as much as he was. I was looking for a doctor when I told Richard I was pregnant. He was adamant about my not having a child on my own or giving it up for adoption, and initially against termination.”

Against it? He'd been brutal, calling anyone who had an abortion nothing short of a low-class whore. Having a bastard running around was only slightly less sordid in his eyes.

“Richard insisted that my family would be horribly disappointed in me if they found out. I'd been concerned about the same thing, of course. He almost convinced me to marry him. Almost. I was scared and confused. I don't know why I believed him.”

Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat. Admitting her gullibility when it came to Richard would never get easy. Neither would admitting what she'd done and why. “Then he said I'd have to quit working. That he'd have a proper wife to mother his children. That finally made me realize he was a lying, manipulative bastard. Anything he said served his own purpose, whether it was agreeing with my stand on equality to make it look like we were compatible, to proposing marriage. I turned him down and told him I was finding a doctor. He said if anyone found out what I'd done he would make life a living hell for me and my parents. That I did believe.”

Brigit didn't say anything. Her mouth was pressed into a thin line, her hands wrapped around the tumbler. Nothing on her face showed her to be judging Charlotte, to be bitter because Charlotte had been lucky enough to have a doctor who performed the operation with care and concern while Camille had died at the hands of a selfish one.

Sometimes having the money to pay for a good doctor wasn't enough, and the thought of all the other women who were financially strapped, who didn't have a choice, ate at Charlotte on a daily basis.

“It's not always an easy decision,” Brigit said quietly. “But I guess some women know right away what they're to do. Victoria wrote that Camille had thought it over some, because I'd had Charlie and made it work. But that was
my
decision. You made yours, and Camille made hers. No one should have to risk their lives for being honest with themselves. She wasn't ready for a baby either, but she shouldn't have died for that.”

“No, she shouldn't have. No one should.” Charlotte drank more bourbon. Her head was starting to feel muzzy, but she didn't care. She and Brigit wouldn't part ways over this and that was worth celebrating.

“Amen to that,” Brigit said. She wiped her eyes with the cuff of her blouse.

Charlotte considered the woman across from her, how she'd reacted to Camille's death, how she'd made no judgment of Charlotte's decision or the reasons behind it. “You went through with your pregnancy. Not many women in your position have done that.”

“More than you might think.” Brigit stared down into her glass, then met Charlotte's eyes. “I could have found someone to perform the operation, and yes, probably died of it. Likely died of it. But I couldn't, and that was my choice. It wasn't any better or any worse than what you and Camille decided. That's what I felt was right for me, at that time in my life.”

“Few think that way,” Charlotte said.

Certainly too few publicly supported a woman's choice to feel comfortable speaking about it on a regular basis. Brigit was a rarity. An overwhelming surge of gratitude made Charlotte's eyes tear and her throat tight. How lucky had she been to befriend this woman?

“That's what all this women's equality and right to vote is for, isn't it?” Brigit said. “That's what those articles you write are for, to remind people we all deserve to make certain personal choices. Maybe someday women won't have this sort of conversation, or mourn our friends, or fear for our lives.”

Charlotte tapped her glass against Brigit's. “Amen to
that
.”

They both drank and sat with their own thoughts for a moment. Charlotte felt closer to Brigit, a closeness that came with trusting someone with your most intimate thoughts and feelings. It was a relief to reduce the weight of her secret that rested on her shoulders.

But the thoughts and feelings Brigit had for the doctor responsible for Camille was still a concern.

“Brigit, I know you're hurting, but please reconsider what you plan to do in Ohio.”

Drawn back to the topic, Brigit's eyes hardened. “He needs to pay. He needs to understand that what he did was wrong. Other women are going to him. Who knows how many might die from his neglect?”

Charlotte leaned forward and laid a hand on her knee. “I know, and he has to be held accountable. But if you try to do something and get arrested, you would suffer and Charlie along with you. I know you don't want him to lose you.”

Maybe it was a terrible thing, to use her son as emotional blackmail, but that didn't make the potential risk any less real.

Anger flared in Brigit's eyes as she realized what Charlotte was doing, but only for a moment. She closed her eyes and tears trickled down her cheeks. “I have to do something for her. I can't just let it go.”

Charlotte set her glass on the table. She knelt on the floor beside Brigit's chair and drew her close. Brigit rested her head on Charlotte's shoulder. “I know, but not that. Find another way to get him, to protect other women. I'll give you the names of some reporters I know in the area. Maybe they can help.”

Brigit breathed slow and deep, collecting herself. “Maybe I can get the police to arrest him, but not when he's in the middle of an operation.”

“Yes, I bet you can.” Charlotte eased away from Brigit, smiling. She wiped a tear off the madam's cheek with her thumb. “I think Camille would prefer you stay out of jail.”

Brigit laughed and dashed away another tear. “Probably.”

Charlotte sat back in her chair and poured them each another finger of bourbon. “Another toast, to clear thinking.” They clinked glasses. “Though if I drink this, I won't be thinking all that clearly, and I still have to go back to work.”

Brigit touched her glass again. “Makes for more interesting news that way.”

* * *

Charlotte walked in a mostly straight path back up the road to the federal building. The cold air had helped clear her head some, but the world was pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. Hopefully she'd be able to speak to James in a sober manner.

Not likely, she thought, smiling.

At least she wouldn't smell drunk. Brigit had given her some water and a piece of mint candy to chew. She had a few more pieces in her pocket, just in case.

Good lord, when was the last time she'd had that much alcohol? And twice with Brigit in the span of a week.

“Miss Brody.”

Charlotte stopped dead in her tracks. Her head swam at the sudden lack of movement.

“Mrs. Hillman,” she whispered with dread as she turned to face the Women's Temperance League chapter president.

Mrs. Hillman strode up to her, having come down the side street Charlotte had just passed. “I'd like to speak to you, if you have a moment.”

“I'm in a bit of a hurry,” she said, awkwardly waving toward the
Times
office and the federal building. Her legs felt wobbly. Charlotte stiffened her spine and limbs to keep from stumbling.

“This won't take long,” the woman said. She smiled, but it was not a natural look for her. “I wanted to thank you and Mr. Toliver for giving the Women's Temperance League equal space in the
Times
. We may have our differences, but—Are you all right, Miss Brody? You look a little green.”

Despite her attempt to not waver, Charlotte felt as if she was standing on the deck of a ship. “I'm fine, Mrs. Hillman. A bit of a stomachache.”

More like bottle flu
.

She suppressed the giggle that bubbled up. “But please go on. You were saying?”

Mrs. Hillman narrowed her gaze. “I was saying that while we have our differences of opinion over the enactment of National Prohibition, I'm very pleased that all voices can be heard in Cordova.”

Charlotte smiled sweetly. “Yet you still think I'm wrong.” She patted Mrs. Hillman's arm. “That's all right. I think you're wrong too.”

The older woman pressed her lips together. “Be that as it may, I'm sure next time—if there is a next time—Mr. Toliver will consider the ramifications of neglecting the prevailing mindset of his readership and present a more balanced edition right off.”

“Ramifications?” Charlotte tilted her head. “What ramifications?”

Mrs. Hillman lifted her chin. “People will let him know quite clearly how they feel about certain . . . opinions, and take appropriate action.”

“By appropriate action you mean . . . what, exactly?” When Mrs. Hillman and her friends had confronted Charlotte about her article, she had been afraid of this happening. “Did you threaten Mr. Toliver with some sort of boycott of the paper?”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Mrs. Hillman's wide-eyed innocence might have been genuine, but Charlotte didn't buy it. “I simply reminded him that people bought newspapers to be informed, not to read the opinions of his staff who don't understand how things work here.”

Be civil,
said the voice in her head.

She ignored it.

“I think I know exactly how things work here, Mrs. Hillman.”

The woman smiled triumphantly.

Charlotte stepped up to her, putting her face inches from Mrs. Hillman's. The smile faded into a frown. “But let me remind
you
of something. Alaska may do its own thing, in its own way and time, but it is still governed by the Constitution of the United States. The First Amendment is the law of the land.”

Mrs. Hillman held her gaze. “As will be the Eighteenth Amendment come January. Good day, Miss Brody.”