Borrowing Death (10 page)

“Come on,” Michael said, touching her arm. “It's our turn.”

The two women flanking Caroline smiled thinly when they approached. Caroline looked up, reaching toward Michael's outstretched hand.

“So sorry for your loss,” he said, bowing slightly.

Caroline nodded, then turned to Charlotte. Her sad smile faltered. “I understand you came by the other day, Charlotte. I'm sorry I wasn't able to see you.”

There was a knowing glint in her eyes. Caroline was well aware that Charlotte had stopped by after the incident in the burnt-out store, while Caroline was on her way to somewhere other than her home. Was she waiting for Charlotte to bring it up?

“Absolutely understandable, Caroline.” Charlotte gathered the widow's hand in hers, patting it reassuringly. “If there's anything I can do for you—anything at all—please let me know.”

The other woman said nothing for a few moments. Hopefully she would see Charlotte as someone to be trusted, but it was difficult to tell.

Caroline thanked them for coming, then eased her hand from Charlotte's.

Politely dismissed, Charlotte and Michael joined the others again. With everyone down in the parlor, it was the perfect opportunity for her to slip away.

“Excuse me, Michael, I need to use the bathroom before we leave.”

As if sensing she was up to something, Michael gave her a warning glare just before a fellow member of the city council drew him into a conversation.

Charlotte made her way out of the parlor and into the entry. No one was about. She hurried up the stairs, keeping her footsteps as light as possible to not announce her route. At the top, the hallway ran the length of the house, with several rooms on this floor. Doors were ajar but none completely closed.

She poked her head in the first open door. A sewing room. The black Singer on its walnut table dominated the small space. A dressmaker's mannequin modeled the majority of a deep purple dress, its unattached sleeves draped over the back of a chair. Baskets and boxes were stacked along the walls. Did Caroline sew her own clothes, or was it the work of Mrs. Munson?

The two bedrooms on the second floor were of good size, each with a wardrobe and vanity. The larger was obviously the Fiskes' room, and Charlotte assumed the smaller one, separated by the lavatory, was a guest room. With half an ear focused on the stairway, she quickly searched the vanity in the Fiskes' room. Nothing jumped out at her indicating who Caroline was seeing. Didn't lovers usually write to each other? If not detailed letters, at least a cryptic note or two? There were a few pieces of correspondence, all from what appeared to be friends and relatives in the States.

Caroline may have hidden any notes from her lover, but Charlotte didn't have time to search every nook and cranny.

Listening for anyone coming up, and confident all remained downstairs, Charlotte dashed to the room at the end of the hall. An office and library, with neat shelves lining the walls and smelling of cigars and old books. A pair of thickly padded, red-and-gold-brocade-covered chairs sat on either side of a tall lamp with a tasseled shade. The desk wasn't as massive as the one in Lyle Fiske's store office, though its squat, black shape seemed about to drop through to the first floor of the house. She could imagine the difficulty of getting the thing up the stairs.

Charlotte rounded the desk. The credenza against the wall there had a tray of crystal tumblers and a decanter of some sort of scotch or whiskey. Personal alcohol use didn't necessarily interest the marshals who enforced Alaska's dry laws, but Charlotte had to wonder where their supply came from. Did everyone bring a bottle or two back when they visited the States?

Pushing the thought aside, she tugged the handles on each of the three deep drawers on either side of the center desk drawer, as well as the center drawer. All were locked.

Damnation.

She doubted anything of Caroline's was in the desk, but perhaps there was something in Lyle's records that might hint at troubles brewing within his business circle. Or perhaps this was where he'd moved the mysterious black box. But wouldn't Caroline have searched here?

The locks didn't appear to be too formidable. A gal she knew in college used to get herself back into the locked dormitory using a hairpin. Charlotte had once asked how she worked the makeshift picks. Helen happily showed her. It had been a few years; could she remember the proper technique?

Charlotte eased two pins out from behind her ear, bent them the way she recalled being instructed, and knelt on the floor. Half listening for footfalls, she inserted the pins inside the lock of the center drawer. The thin metal scraped on the mechanism, caught on something, then clicked.

Surprised, Charlotte carefully twisted the pin. The lock turned. “Ah!”

She opened the drawer. Neat piles of papers and envelopes were stacked alongside engraved silver pens. Nothing useful or screaming “I'm cheating customers” to be found.

Charlotte repeated the picking process with one of the side drawers, one that might be deep enough to hold a black box. The lock refused to yield, and one of the hairpins bent.

“Damnation.”

“Miss Brody, what are you doing in here?”

Crouched behind the desk, Charlotte jerked back and fell on her bottom, smacking into the sideboard. The tumblers and decanter rattled. She scrambled to her feet.

The housekeeper stood in the doorway, arms crossed and lips pressed together.

“Mrs. Munson, you startled me.”

That was an understatement. Charlotte's heart hammered. Her ears throbbed with her racing heartbeat, and her face burned.

“I'd imagine so,” Mrs. Munson said, one eyebrow cocked. “Were you looking for something in particular?”

Charlotte held up her hairpin. “Just dropped my pin while admiring this lovely desk set. I've been looking for something similar for my brother for Christmas. I caught a glimpse of the desk when I came up to use the washroom and wanted to sneak a peek.” Would Mrs. Munson remember the office door had been mostly closed? Charlotte hoped not, but the skeptical look on her face indicated she might. “And the books. I love to see what people are reading. I hope I haven't intruded.”

Good Lord, what a liar.

She palmed the bent pins.

“I'm sure Mrs. Fiske would be happy to discuss books with you another time.” Mrs. Munson held the edge of the heavy oak door and inclined her head slightly. A clear indication that it was time for Charlotte to leave.

“Of course. Some other time.”

She walked purposely out of the office, smiling at the housekeeper as she passed. Rushing might imply guilt. Charlotte descended the stairs in the same manner. Michael waited at the bottom, wearing his coat and holding hers. The expression on his face changed from vaguely aware she was joining him to mild suspicion as he looked past her to Mrs. Munson coming down behind her.

Holding her gaze, he readied her coat. “Shall we, dear sister?”

Her back to the housekeeper, Charlotte stuck her tongue out at him. “Yes, thank you. I'm ready to go.”

Mrs. Munson watched them both as Charlotte buttoned her coat and put on her hat. She dropped the bent pins into her pocket. Did Mrs. Munson think Charlotte was going to bolt back up the stairs?

“Good-bye, Mrs. Munson.”

“Good-bye, Miss Brody. Doctor.”

Michael tipped his hat to her and let Charlotte precede him through the front door.

“Did you find whatever you were looking for?” he asked when they started down the street.

Charlotte considered telling him she hadn't been snooping, but why bother? “No. I would very much like to know who Caroline is seeing.”

Confirm it, really, as she was pretty sure Adam Kenner was her lover.

“Why does it matter?”

“It could be important in learning who killed Lyle.”

“Maybe,” Michael said, “or it could just be your busybody tendencies getting the better of you.”

“I'm a journalist, trained to look into questionable cases.”

“Which is a natural outlet for your innate busybodiness.”

She couldn't completely deny that, but it still stung that sometimes he didn't take her career seriously. “Well, I'm no doctor or anything fancy like that, but I like to think at least some of my work has merit.”

Michael took her arm and stopped. “Don't be like that, Charlotte. You know I've admired your articles from the beginning. You're passionate about important subjects, stand by your convictions, and care for the people you write about. It's impressive and interesting.”

That made her feel better.

“As long as I don't ruffle feathers.”

He grinned. “You've never been one not to do something because it ruffles feathers.” The grin faltered. “I know you want to figure out who killed Lyle. So do I. But you have to tread carefully. Snooping in a dead man's house isn't considered acceptable behavior in too many circles.”

Of course he had a point. “I'll be careful.”

With a peck on her cheek, Michael left Charlotte at the
Times
office and continued on to attend appointments.

Charlotte hung up her coat and changed out of her boots, then set the kettle on the stove and went to work. She wrote up a short piece on Lyle Fiske's visitation, noting a few of the other attendees and including the time and place of his burial in two days.

“As long as the ground isn't frozen.” She didn't include that in the article. While it was certainly cold, she suspected strong backs and shovels would be available to inter Mr. Fiske. If not, the newly completed morgue was said to have adequate facilities to hold the dearly departed until the spring thaw.

To steer her thoughts away from images of dead bodies, Charlotte picked up an article received over the teletype on protests against the Volstead Act and counterprotests by chapters of the Women's Temperance League. She was just getting to the list of cities where gatherings would be held, and wondering if she could organize a debate in Cordova, when the bell over the door sounded.

Charlotte looked up and smiled at her visitors. Brigit and Della slipped in with a gust of cold, wet wind. “Hello, ladies. What brings you here on such a day?”

The women removed their hats and opened their coats in the warm office.

“Something I thought you ought to see,” Brigit said. She gently nudged Della forward. “Go on, she won't bite.”

Charlotte didn't know Della well, having met her only in passing whenever she visited Brigit at the house, but they'd been nodding acquaintances. What could be going on that Brigit thought it was important to bring the young woman here?

Hat in hand, Della crossed to the desk and sat when Charlotte motioned for her to take one of the chairs. Brigit stayed back, removing her coat and hanging it on one of the pegs. So she planned on staying for a bit, but Della didn't. Interesting.

“Brigit s-said I oughta c-come sh-show you this if I weren't gonna go to the m-marshal.” Her stutter wasn't due to nervousness, Charlotte knew. Brigit had told her of Della's speech patterns, and had been quite surprised when the young woman completely lost the stutter if she sang. She was often called upon to entertain the visitors at Brigit's house.

Della reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a gold necklace with a cross dangling from it. She draped it on top of the papers on the desk and hesitated before moving her hand away, as if reluctant to let it go.

“Very nice,” Charlotte said, looking at but not touching the piece. “Where did you get it?”

Della glanced up at Brigit as she sat in the other chair. “Tell her.”

The younger woman started to speak, but now nervousness did make her stutter worse. She took a deep breath and said what she needed to say in a semi-singing lilt. She had a lovely voice. “It's mine, but I haven't seen it for a year.”

Charlotte cocked her head. “Had it been lost? Stolen?”

Della shook her head. “I'd pawned it when I first got here, before I met Brigit, but the man I pawned it to was asking for more money than I could afford to get it back. I mostly didn't think about it. Until this morning.”

“What happened this morning?”

Della and Brigit exchanged looks again, and Brigit nodded for Della to continue. “Found it on the porch in a plain paper packet with my name on it.”

“Tell her who you'd pawned it to,” Brigit said.

“L-Lyle F-Fiske.”

Surprise lifted Charlotte's eyebrows. “Lyle? Was he a registered pawnbroker?”

Brigit snorted a laugh. “Not hardly. Mr. Fiske loaned money to our less than prestigious citizens. The interest rates he charged were near criminal.”

That certainly wasn't a shock. Most legitimate loan rates were near criminal, in Charlotte's opinion. Is that what Brigit meant when she said the Fiskes lived above their obvious means? How could income as an illegal pawnbroker to less affluent Cordovans be that lucrative?

“If Mr. Fiske's dead, and I didn't pay off the loan, how do I explain getting the necklace back?” Though she sang the words, Della's blue eyes were wide with worry.

“Considering what Lyle was doing was illegal to begin with, I don't think you'll be implicated,” Charlotte said, hoping to assure the poor woman. “Someone else knew about his side business and was wiping the slate clean, so to speak. A sort of Robin Hood.”

The question was, who would have done it? Caroline? If she was an equal partner in the hardware store, why not in Fiske's loan business as well? But then, why return a pawned item rather than keep that endeavor going? Guilt?