Borrowing Death (22 page)

She turned on her heel and strode down the walk, head high.

The contents of Charlotte's stomach churned, bourbon, cheese, and soup roiling in anger. Damn that woman, thinking she ran the moral majority of this town. Not everyone agreed with her and the Women's Temperance League, and Charlotte was sure she could get that support.

“We'll see whose amendment prevails, Mrs. Hillman.”

Charlotte turned abruptly and regretted it in an instant. Her stomach stayed facing the street for a long moment while she focused on the federal building. When it caught up to the direction she was facing, the remains of lunch tried to lurch up into her throat. She swallowed hard and fast to keep it down, sweat breaking out on her face and back.

That was close. She breathed slow and deep to steady her head and stomach. Reaching into her coat pocket, she found a piece of candy, unwrapped it, and popped it into her mouth. The mint cleared her head and settled her stomach some. She gave it another few moments; going to see James while in this condition would cause even more problems than with Mrs. Hillman.

When she was sure she wouldn't vomit on the walkway, Charlotte went in. She stopped just inside the door, leaning on the frame.

James sat at his desk, his back to the door while he typed with two fingers on some sort of form. The marshal's door was open, the office empty. Loud voices came from beyond the door marked “Jail.”

“Is that Otto Kenner in there?” Charlotte asked.

James turned quickly, brows drawn together. “It is. He's claiming illegal procedure.”

She couldn't help but grin. “Accusing you of not doing everything by the book? How dare he? He didn't believe you were only trying to keep some skulking thief from stealing his legitimately purchased nails and saw blades?”

There was no hint of their shared escapade in his eyes or on his face. “Blaine does.”

Charlotte nodded. “Good enough.”

She started toward the chair near his desk, her steps slow as she concentrated on not weaving off course.

“Charlotte, are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” She didn't look up at him until she was seated. Why was it so warm in here? Charlotte opened her coat. “So he's putting up a bit of a fuss. Not surprising. Have you asked him about his rivalry with Fiske?”

“Kenner admits he was at odds with Fiske, that he was planning to establish a new store, but nothing else. He claims we planted the contraband in the warehouse.” James shook his head in disbelief. He'd probably heard all sorts of excuses and explanations to cover wrongdoing in his time as a deputy.

“When you question him again about his black market business, ask him if he and Lyle were at odds there too.”

James's eyebrows rose, but he wasn't as surprised as she'd expected him to be. “So that's who else was bringing things in. We knew there were at least two, possibly three, sources, but could never narrow it down enough to justify searches of inventory and ship manifests.”

Charlotte blinked at him. “You used the information I found in Kenner's home to do that.”

“That's why you came to me with it, isn't it? It gave us a good idea that he was doing something he shouldn't have been doing. We just had to get into the warehouse to confirm, and we did.”

She smiled at him. “We make a good team.”

He smiled back. “We do at that.”

“Are you going to ask Otto if he killed Fiske?”

“No.”

Charlotte straightened, startled by his surety. “They were rivals, both in legitimate and not so legitimate businesses. Lyle's prices probably dug into Otto's profit margin, and Lyle couldn't care less. That's plenty of motive to kill him, the way Otto felt about fair competition. And a witness saw someone who looked an awful lot like Otto leave the fire.”

“All that's true,” James said, nodding. “Except I checked his alibi. He was at the Mirage Club most of the night of the fire.”

“Most of it. Where did he go when he wasn't there? With a large enough window of time, a man walking fast or on a motorcycle would have ample opportunity to leave the club, get to Fiske's, and get back.”

“Except none of the witnesses seems to think he was gone all that long, and your arsonist didn't see the man leave on a motorcycle.”

“Oh. Right.” She'd forgotten that part.

James seemed as disappointed as she was. “At least we have him for the illegal booze and such.”

Charlotte's stomach churned along with her thoughts. The bourbon wasn't sitting well with the anxiety of losing her main suspect.

“Are you going to be sick?”

She shook her head. “No, I'm fine.”

He frowned. “You don't look fine. You look like you're about to spew your lunch all over my desk.”

The very idea of “spewing” or “lunch” made her gut cramp, which made her head spin. Apparently the pleasant muzziness of bourbon went directly into a hangover for her. Charlotte slumped back in the chair, her head swimming. She closed her eyes. “Damnation.”

“Why don't I take you home.” His chair scraped back along the wood floor.

Charlotte opened her eyes and held up a hand, stopping him from getting to his feet. “I have to get back to the paper. I'll stop at the café for some coffee. I'll be fine.”

“You sure? I don't mind seeing you home.”

She gave him the best smile she could muster. It felt odd on her face. Then again, the alcohol had made everything feel rather odd. “I'm sure. I'll stop by later to get some quotes from you and the marshal.”

Charlotte rose gingerly, careful not to jostle her stomach. She felt James's eyes on her as she reached the door. Turning, she smiled and waved to him. Back outside in the fresh air, the queasy feeling abated with a few slow, deep breaths. If she could make it to the café down the block without vomiting, she'd be grateful.

T
here was still a good number of people in the café an hour past lunch, mostly pairs of women and older folks, chatting or reading the newspaper. Charlotte found a seat as far away from the kitchen as she could, as a precaution. Thankfully, the coffee and food aromas wafting through the dining area weren't as difficult to tolerate as she'd feared. Though now her head started to ache, and she was desperate for a nap.

Unfortunately, there was still work to be done, being the middle of the week and all. A number of Associated Press pieces had come in just before she'd left the office. Putting them off until after what she'd thought would be a quick visit to Brigit and James seemed foolish now.

“Coffee, Miss Brody?” Henry asked, pot and cup in hand. “I almost missed you sitting over here.”

Charlotte nodded, stopped when the ache in her head became a pounding, and rubbed her temples instead. “Coffee. Yes. Please. And do keep it coming.”

Henry poured her a cup, then dashed back behind the counter for cream, sugar, and a spoon. “Are you all right, Miss Brody?”

That seemed to be the question of the day.

She smiled at him best she could. “I'll be fine. Can I have a piece or two of dry toast as well?”

“Sure thing.” He checked on the other patrons on his way to the kitchen.

Charlotte added cream to her coffee and sipped. Nice and strong. That should help get her through the afternoon. A year ago, a finger or two of liquor gave her the pleasant sensation she'd initially felt today and lasted longer before turning on her. Was it the time of day or her body that changed? Either way, she'd be much more cautious about visiting Brigit when they were both feeling anxious or melancholy.

Henry returned with a glass of water. He set it and two white tablets down beside the saucer. “Figured you might need these.” She gave him a questioning look. He grinned and shrugged. “Just a hunch. We keep a bottle of Bayer in the back.”

“Thanks, Henry.” Charlotte took the aspirin and swallowed some water.

“Be right back with your toast.”

As he returned to the kitchen, Rebecca Derenov came out carrying a small, white enameled tub. She wore an apron over her dress, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. The gold and ruby ring strung around her neck swung back and forth as she walked into the dining area.

Charlotte's heart sank. It was the middle of a school day. What was the girl doing here? After school and on weekends was one thing, but if Rebecca was working instead of attending school, things had gone from bad to worse for her and her brother.

Going from table to table, Rebecca collected dirty dishes from patrons. Some ignored her, but several smiled as they passed her their plates. She turned toward Charlotte and hesitated. Her cheeks darkened as she made her way to Charlotte's table.

“Good afternoon, Miss Brody. How are you today?”

At least she didn't comment on Charlotte's state.

“I'm doing well. How are
you?
”

Rebecca shrugged and looked down into the tub of dishes. “Okay, I guess.”

She certainly didn't seem “okay.” The poor kid. Just yesterday the two of them had discussed the importance of her staying in school. Rebecca wanted to continue her education, and at the same time knew she needed to have a job. Had Ben guilted his sister into going to work? Charlotte hoped not. What a terrible situation for the Derenovs.

Charlotte touched Rebecca's arm, drawing her attention from the dishes. “I'm sure it's only temporary. When you get the chance, I'd love to have you come by the office again.”

Perhaps she could find something for Rebecca to do there for a small wage. A chat with Mr. Toliver was in order.

Rebecca's eyes lit with anticipation. “That would be wonderful, Miss Brody. I had a swell time learning about the newspaper business.”

Charlotte smiled. “And I had a swell time showing it to you.”

“Oh! I have something I need to ask.” Rebecca set the tub on the floor and hurried into the kitchen. She was back in a few moments clutching lined pages. “I wrote a story and was hoping you'd take a look at it for me.” Her cheeks pinkened again, but she was smiling this time. “When you get a chance.”

“I'd love to,” Charlotte said, taking the pages. She glanced through them quickly, her head in no condition to concentrate on Rebecca's small, neat writing. “Is it a fiction piece?”

Rebecca nodded enthusiastically. “About a girl and her dog lost in the wilds of Alaska.” She frowned. “I've never had a dog, so I asked some friends about keeping one.”

“Research is always a good idea. Try to be as accurate as possible, even in fiction. Though a little artistic license is allowable.”

The girl beamed, and Charlotte smiled back, thrilled to give her a bit of praise.

“Rebecca,” a man called from the kitchen, “get back in here and wash those dishes.”

Rebecca glanced over her shoulder. “Yes, Mr. Conway.” She hefted the tote and turned back to Charlotte. “I gotta go. Thanks a heap, Miss Brody.”

“You're welcome. I'll read these tonight and make notes, if that's all right?”

“Sure thing! See ya!”

Despite the weight of the tub and dishes, Rebecca's step was light and quick as she hurried into the kitchen.

Henry held the swinging door open for her, a bemused expression on his face. He brought over a plate with two pieces of toast and refilled her cup from the coffeepot he held in his other hand. “Here you go, Miss Brody. Sorry it took so long.”

“No problem.” Charlotte set Rebecca's story aside. Before he could turn to go, she touched his arm, stopping him. “How are things with you, Henry?”

Understanding she was asking about how he felt now that he'd confessed, not just his general well-being, he glanced around the dining area to make sure no one was paying them any particular attention. They weren't. “I'm all right, I guess. Haven't felt like doing, well, you know. Did you, um, talk to . . .”

She nodded. “I think it'll be fine. The information was greatly appreciated.”

Relief eased the worry lines furrowing his brow, making him look like his happy sixteen-year-old self again. “That's good. I hope it helps.”

“If you need to talk or anything, Henry, I'm happy to lend an ear.”

He smiled. “Thanks, Miss Brody. I'll keep that in mind. Better get back to work. Mr. Conway is hoping to close up early today, so he's pushing us a bit.”

“We wouldn't want Mr. Conway getting angry,” she said. “I'll talk to you soon.”

Giving her a quick nod, he headed to another table where three women had just settled in and were discussing the selection of pies available.

Charlotte finished her toast and drank down the rest of the coffee. She considered asking for a third cup, but decided a cup of tea while she worked would be more productive than lingering at the café. She left enough money on the table to cover the food, drink, and a reasonable tip. Then she added another nickel; hopefully the staff split tips left by patrons.

She buttoned up her coat, picked up Rebecca's story, and made her way out onto the walk. Sure she could manage the rest of the day, Charlotte took a steadying breath and returned to the
Times
office.

* * *

Nothing thwarted the headache. Charlotte had spent two hours at the Linotype, her ears plugged with bits of paper and her scarf wrapped around her head to muffle the noise, before she finally gave up. There was no way to keep the motor, small as it was, from making her head feel like it was ready to explode.

No more bourbon in the middle of the day for her. Though between Prohibition and the reduction of black market booze, she was probably safe from that prospect.

Head thrumming, she sat at Toliver's desk writing a note to the man about where she'd left off. There wasn't much more to do for the next day's edition, so she didn't feel too terrible about going home “sick.” More aspirin and a good night's sleep were all she needed to get back on her feet.

As she finished the note, Charlotte spied the pages of Rebecca's story. She'd promised the girl she'd read them, though she hadn't set a timeframe. But curiosity overcame her head's thumping and she started to read.

Within the first page or so, Charlotte saw Rebecca's talent for storytelling had translated nicely to the page. There were some misspellings, and a few grammatical issues, but overall the story was engaging and fun. Just what you'd expect a twelve- or thirteen-year-old to enjoy, yet with a higher degree of aptitude than her years suggested. Rebecca had potential as a writer, and it would be beyond a shame not to have it nurtured.

But working instead of going to school wouldn't help that at all.

Perhaps if she could mentor Rebecca, get Toliver to publish this story and others, Ben would see how much his sister's life could benefit. Maybe even his as well.

She had to talk to him.

Tomorrow, her aching head pleaded.

But Charlotte knew that if she spent the night thinking about it she'd never sleep and never get rid of the damn headache. Better to try to talk to them now, or at least ask Ben to sit down with her tomorrow so they could work out a way for Rebecca to keep writing and contributing to the family.

She packed Rebecca's pages into her satchel and got her hat, coat, and boots. It was just after dinner. Would Ben and Rebecca be home? She stopped short on the walk outside the office. But where did they live? Being Ben's employer, and having employed Mrs. Derenov, Caroline Fiske might know.

Flashlight in hand to avoid the iciest of areas as she trudged up the hill to the Fiske home, Charlotte was breaking all manner of social protocol by intruding on Caroline at the dinner hour. Oh, well. It wasn't her first breach of etiquette and wasn't likely to be her last. She knocked.

Mrs. Munson opened the door. “Good evening, Miss Brody. How nice to see you.”

She didn't seem terribly pleased to see Charlotte, but that wasn't a surprise.

“Good evening, Mrs. Munson. I'm sorry to intrude, but was wondering if you or Mrs. Fiske could tell me where Ben and Rebecca Derenov live?”

Mrs. Munson's lips pursed. “I'm afraid I don't know, and Mrs. Fiske—”

“Mrs. Munson, do have Miss Brody come inside,” Caroline said as she came in from the dining room. Her simple black dress was more fashionable than most widows' garb. “It's too cold to be standing there with the door open.”

With her back to her employee, Mrs. Munson gave Charlotte a withering look that said one thing: Make it fast.

Charlotte smiled at the housekeeper, then at Caroline. “Thank you. I just wanted to ask where the Derenovs live.”

Mrs. Munson shut the door, but stood near so she could usher Charlotte out as soon as possible.

Caroline considered it for a moment. Perhaps she didn't know. Employers weren't necessarily concerned with the home lives of their employees. “They have a small house not far from where you're staying. Down Third Street, the fourth alley past that big spruce. Blue and white. Flower boxes in the windows”

Charlotte couldn't keep the surprise off her face. It was a more precise description than she'd expected.

“I brought some things over when Mrs. Derenov was ill, God rest her soul,” Caroline said. “They live humbly, but Mrs. Derenov and Rebecca kept the place quite clean and tidy.”

“Thank you. And sorry to bother you at dinner.” Charlotte turned toward the door, which Mrs. Munson was already starting to open.

“Just a moment, Charlotte,” Caroline said. “Mrs. Munson, can you tell Mr. and Mrs. Adler I'll be with them momentarily, and please close the sliding door.”

The housekeeper gave Charlotte another annoyed glare. Mrs. Munson nodded to her employer, then did as she was bade, closing the door and leaving Charlotte and Caroline alone in the entry.

“I'm sorry,” Charlotte said. “I didn't realize you had company.”

“It's fine.” Caroline waved off her intrusion, obviously concerned about something else. “Adam told me his brother has been arrested for illegal transport of alcohol.”

“He has. I have a small article ready for the paper tomorrow.” Was Caroline going to ask her to pull the piece? Charlotte lifted her chin, ready for a fight. She'd had it with being told what the
Times
should be reporting.

But Caroline nodded thoughtfully. “Good.”

Good? That wasn't quite the reaction Charlotte expected. There didn't seem to be much love lost between Caroline and Otto, considering how he distained his brother's relationship with Mrs. Fiske, but “good”?

“Shouldn't you at least feel bad for Adam's sake?”

“I do,” Caroline said. “Adam was quite distraught when the marshal and the deputy came into their home and arrested Otto. They accused him of colluding with his brother, but Otto rightfully and truthfully said Adam had nothing to do with anything.” She smiled wryly. “Though he claimed his own innocence.”

“It's difficult to claim innocence when evidence is staring the marshal in the face.” Granted, the method of obtaining that evidence wasn't quite as pure as the marshal believed, but that wasn't the point at the moment. “Do you know if Otto was competing with Lyle over this as well as the hardware business market?”

Caroline didn't say anything at first. Staring at Charlotte, her jaw tightened, then she said, “I have no idea what you mean.”

Denial, of course, was expected.

“No, Lyle wasn't one to let you help with the business, was he? So how could you possibly know he was running contraband? And I'll assume you knew nothing of his pawn operation either.”