Borrowing Death (6 page)

“I'll get to work on it right now.” She started toward the printing room.

Toliver called her back. “I appreciate you standing by your convictions, Miss Brody, but can I offer you a word of advice?”

Charlotte frowned at her boss. “If it's ‘make nice' with Mrs. Hillman and her friends, you may as well fire me now.”

“Oh, good Lord, woman, no one expects miracles.” He smiled and she grinned back, relieved. “Just be careful. This is a small town and social politics are a local pastime. There's a certain ‘us versus them' attitude you need to be aware of.”

“I won't kowtow to the likes of that woman.” Charlotte had learned long ago that letting bullies get away with threats only made things worse.

“I'm not asking you to do that at all. As a journalist, neutrality on issues is key. You're supposed to report the news, not necessarily make it.” Toliver wasn't quite lecturing her, and Charlotte tried not to take it as such.

“As a human being and a citizen of this country,” she said, “I have the right to my opinion.”

He nodded. “Of course you do, which is why your article ran as an opinion piece. The League also has that right. But Mrs. Hillman can be a force to be reckoned with.”

“She's not the only one.”

“I know that too,” Toliver said with a gentle smile. “That's why I asked you to come aboard in the first place. Try not to let her get to you, eh? Weigh the risks and consequences of challenging her, or anyone.”

Charlotte understood his dilemma. Andrew Toliver did his best to let all voices be heard, but the
Times
was his life. If Hillman and her friends pushed hard enough, they might influence businesses to pull advertisements, or start a skirmish within the pages of the paper. While that might increase readership, there was also a potential for boycotting.

She didn't think the entire town backed either her or Hillman, but Toliver shouldn't risk his livelihood on her stubbornness. No blaming him there. She'd withstood threats and vandalism when she wrote for the papers back East and knew all too well how personal opinion or activity could influence the newspaper business. Readership waxed and waned with controversial articles, but Toliver and the
Times
didn't have the resources to keep afloat if too many stopped reading.

“I'll be civil to Mrs. Hillman and her friends.”

“That's all I ask.” He squared himself behind the desk and shuffled through more papers. “All right, get on that article, please, Miss Brody, and get yourself home at a decent hour.”

Charlotte started toward the print room again, then stopped and turned back. “Thank you, Mr. Toliver.”

He waved absently. “Just keep doing what you're doing.”

“Oh, I plan to, sir.”

C
harlotte stayed home the next morning to work on her series for
Modern Woman
. She'd interviewed the proprietresses of Frankle & Taylor Ladies' Finery, who had come to Alaska nearly twenty years before during the Nome gold rush. Theirs was an exciting tale of two young women succeeding in a rough and wild mining town that tested the toughest of all who were drawn there. Penelope Frankle had been an assayer, buying gold, and Rowena Taylor made herself a nice little nest egg mining on the crowded beach of the remote town. Now in their forties, the two friends had settled down together in the more amicable Cordova.

Charlotte's readers would love it. But only if she got it to New York and into the hands of her
Modern Woman
editor and best friend, Kit Cameron. Kit was understanding when it came to the inherent hiccups of the postal service between Alaska and the States, but Charlotte tried to avoid escalating hiccups into all-out distress for her and Mr. Malone, the publisher.

Just after noon, she finished the draft, promising herself to go over it later and get it out on the next ship, and headed to Brigit's. Careful to keep her footing on the icy road, she descended the hill to Main Street, then down toward Michael's office. There was a shortcut to Brigit's just about behind Michael's, but chances were good that no one had cleared it of snow. Rather than risk a bad fall, she went the long way, around the corner and down the street.

Charlotte knocked on the door. It wasn't so early in the day that Brigit and the girls would still be asleep. Charlie was likely in school, since it was Tuesday, otherwise he was the unofficial answerer of the door before business hours.

The filigreed brass peep box didn't slide open, as usual, before the door latch clicked. Brigit smiled as she held the door for Charlotte. “I saw you from the upstairs window. Come in.”

She followed Brigit into the entry. Someone was in the parlor running a sweeper and singing. Della's sweet voice, and not a stutter to be heard. Brigit took Charlotte's hat and coat and had her change her boots for a pair of soft slippers.

“How are you doing?” Charlotte asked as she accompanied Brigit into her office.

The madam shrugged, a sad smile on her face. “Getting on as best I can.” She tilted her head. “How are
you
doing? You were more than a little affected yourself the other day.”

Charlotte swallowed hard; the reminder of their conversation caught her off guard. “I'm fine. Really.”

She was lying, and Brigit probably knew it.

“Let me know if I can do anything for you, all right?” Brigit's sincere offer was accompanied by a warm squeeze of Charlotte's arm. Charlotte's throat tightened and she could only nod.

“Have a seat,” Brigit said, indicating one of the two chairs at a small table near her desk. There were matching plates, cups for tea, and bowls at each place. Beside the table, a rolling cart held an ornate soup tureen. “I'll get the sandwiches. Is there anything else you'd like?”

Recovering from the unexpected emotion, Charlotte smiled at her friend. “No, thanks. This is wonderful.”

Brigit grinned and left the room. It was funny how she and Brigit had become friends, yet they hardly knew anything about each other. Charlotte had discovered a little about Brigit's past during the whole ugly business of the Darcy Dugan murder, but Brigit rarely volunteered information. The news about her friend Camille had been an exception. Then again, Charlotte wasn't exactly forthcoming with her own flawed history.

“Here we go.” Brigit returned in a few minutes and closed the door behind her. She set the plate of sandwiches between them, ladled soup from the tureen, then sat down. “Split pea soup. My mother's recipe.”

“You cook?” Charlotte couldn't help the surprise in her voice. The women usually took turns preparing meals and taking care of the house, though Brigit had hired someone to help out with some chores.

Brigit laughed and winked. “I have many skills outside of the bedroom.”

Charlotte knew she was a savvy businesswoman as well. Brigit's house was one of the few remaining in Cordova, known to have a reputation for quality entertainment, be it in services or gaming.

They each enjoyed a few bites of their food—the soup was marvelous—and made small talk before getting to the true point of the visit.

“You alluded to something last night,” Charlotte said, “about the Fiskes not being all they appeared to be. What did you mean by that?”

Brigit wasn't one to gossip; her livelihood depended on discretion. She wouldn't say anything if she didn't think it was important to the investigation of the fire or the death of Lyle Fiske.

The madam dabbed at her lips with her linen napkin. “Everyone has their secrets, don't they, Charlotte?”

Charlotte stared at her friend. Brigit certainly had hers. Was she referring to Charlotte's reluctance to tell her own secrets the other day? Everyone kept things to themselves, but what secrets were worth killing a man over?

“The Fiskes had an open marriage,” Brigit continued, “though neither broadcast the fact. Appearances and all that. He quietly saw girls here or at other houses from time to time. She's said to have a lover who's more . . . satisfying than her husband.”

Having an affair wasn't anything new, but people usually tried to be more discreet. Maybe the Fiskes figured living in a small town meant everyone would know sooner or later anyway.

“Who?”

Brigit shrugged. “I don't know and really don't care. I'm sure Lyle knew, but he wasn't complaining. He was just talking. That's what he usually did here. Talk.”

That didn't surprise Charlotte. A lot of men visited brothels just for a little companionship. “Were you the one to have conversations with him?”

“Sometimes,” Brigit said. She sipped her tea. “More often than not it was one of the other girls. He was partial to Marie for a while.”

Marie had left not long after Charlotte had arrived in Cordova. She wondered how Marie was doing back in the States.

“If they weren't happy with each other, why stay married?” Charlotte asked.

“Why divorce? He gets a wife who has social acumen to help his business and standing in the community. She benefits from the financial and social stability. As long as they're both in agreement of expectations, no one gets hurt, right?”

But someone did get hurt. The question was, did their arrangement have anything to do with the fire and Lyle's death?

“Maybe Lyle got tired of being the cuckold,” Charlotte suggested. “Maybe he called Caroline's lover in to tell him to leave her be, and the lover refused.”

“They fought and things got out of hand,” Brigit said, finishing the scenario.

“Or Caroline wanted out of the marriage and Lyle refused,” Charlotte said. “Maybe she sent her lover to make him change his mind.” Though that was less likely, it wasn't completely out of the realm of possibility.

“And
then
things got out of hand.” Brigit nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Men can become possessive, even when they've given up claim, be it woman or object.”

Love and jealousy did strange things to people, to their ability to act and think logically.

“What about other people who may have had problems with Fiske?” Charlotte asked. Businessmen sometimes made enemies, whether they ran large corporations or small town stores.

“Nothing unusual,” Brigit said. “Folks grumbled here and there. He and Otto Kenner had a yelling match in the middle of a Businessmen's Association meeting, I heard.”

“Otto Kenner?” The name sounded familiar, but Charlotte couldn't quite place him.

“Big, burly guy.” Brigit held her hands over her shoulders to illustrated Otto Kenner's physique. “He's a builder and carpenter. His brother Adam has an office just across from yours, above the barber shop.”

Charlotte still couldn't picture either man. They probably didn't cross paths often.

“Anyway, Fiske was the only game in town, really, as far as the hardware store went. It's expensive to bring goods up here. I think he was decent about not gouging customers. Much.”

Something was missing at the end of that sentence. “But?”

“There are things you shouldn't know, that I can't tell you.” When Charlotte started to protest, Brigit covered her hand with her own, stopping her. “Not because I don't trust you. I do. But your relationship with a certain deputy puts you—and me—in a precarious position. If you know something and don't tell James, and he asks about it, you could get into trouble. None of us wants that.” She smiled at Charlotte. “Especially James, I'd wager.”

If she was speaking to anyone else, Charlotte would have pushed for more, but Brigit was her friend. “Can you give me a hint? Something I can try to work out for myself? That way if I happen to learn anything you won't get into trouble.”

Brigit pressed her lips together, her brow furrowed as she contemplated Charlotte's request. “Let's just say the Fiskes were better off than they seemed.”

“Was he doing some creative accounting?”

Lying about business income and expenditure wasn't new, though Fiske didn't have investors to steal from. None that were known, at any rate.

Brigit shook her head. “I can't say more. Truly, Charlotte.”

Charlotte squeezed her hand in understanding. “Thank you for that much. It gives me something else to go on.”

“Are you going to talk to James about the Fiskes' marriage?”

She wasn't sure how to read the look on Brigit's face. “I think I should, don't you? It could be vital to finding out who killed Fiske. I promise not to tell him where I got the idea. You can be my anonymous source.”

Brigit laughed. “I'm sure James Eddington will have a good idea where you got your information, but as long as I don't say anything specific, we should both be all right.”

“Exactly.” Charlotte spooned up some more soup. “This really is delicious.”

“I'll give you the recipe, if you'd like.”

“Oh, no,” Charlotte said. “I'd much rather visit you to get some.”

She grinned at Brigit's pinkening cheeks, and the two of them finished their lunch.

* * *

On her way back to the office, Charlotte saw James standing in front of the federal building, talking to a woman. She wore a fashionable cloche hat despite the cold and wet. Her back was to Charlotte, making it impossible to identify her. Bundled up as everyone was in this weather, it was difficult to recognize who was who most of the time. The woman patted James on the arm and leaned forward to peck him on the cheek before she hurried up the street.

A pang went through Charlotte, stopping her momentarily. Who was that?

Charlotte shook off whatever it was she felt. Not jealousy, exactly. Surprise? She had no claim on him, nor he on her. They were friends, free to see whomever they chose, to have another person kiss them, if that's what they wanted.

She started toward him again and called out before he went inside. “James, do you have a minute?”

He turned his head as he unlocked the main door. The marshal's office occupied the ground floor. Up a wide staircase was the post office, which was closed for the afternoon. “About that,” he said. “I have a meeting with the fire chief.”

He held the door for her, then unlocked the interior office door as well. The room smelled of leather, gun oil, and tobacco. Both James and Marshal Blaine enjoyed a pipe or cigar now and again.

“I won't hold you up. How did it go with Caroline last night?”

James went to his desk and rifled through a drawer. “Much as you'd expect.”

“Did she have any idea who'd try to rob them or hurt Lyle?” It was a long shot of a question, of course. Chances were good the robbery was a random act and the murder of Lyle Fiske a terrible result of circumstances.

He closed the drawer with a bit more force than necessary. “No, she didn't. According to Mrs. Fiske, he had no enemies, and no one in his employ had reason to hurt him or the business.”

Charlotte narrowed her gaze. “You don't sound convinced.”

“It's the rare businessman who becomes successful without ruffling at least a few feathers. Or being ruffled himself.”

“I was just saying as much.” She always felt heartened when she and James seemed to follow similar thought processes. “I heard he and Otto Kenner weren't exactly friendly.”

“Yeah, I heard that too, but that isn't motive for murder.”

“But what if it turned into something more?”

James lifted one eyebrow. As much as they seemed drawn to similar conclusions, she also knew that look of skepticism. “Do you know anything specific, or are you just flinging things out there?”

She shrugged. “Mostly flinging. Never hurts to speculate.”

“No, but I need more than a list of who didn't like the man.” He came around the desk and gestured for her to precede him to the door. “Right now, it looks like a robbery that got out of hand. The thief, caught by surprise, grabs the closest thing he could use as a weapon. This time it happened to be a big hunting knife from the display case. People make mistakes when a situation gets excitable. They don't think straight and it goes from bad to worse.”

It certainly had at that.

He held up the folder. “Your brother's report. That's what I'm meeting Parker about, to confirm the explosion of the solvents covered Fiske with debris that snuffed out the flames on his body. Had Fiske's body burned further, Michael might not have found the fatal wound. This case is now officially a homicide investigation rather than an unfortunate accidental fire.”