Borrowing Death (12 page)

As she ascended the stairs to the green house, Charlotte grasped the bannister for support. It wobbled some, reminding her she needed to get it fixed. Someone like Otto Kenner would be the man to call on. She should see if he was available.

Perhaps a visit to Otto Kenner's home, where he ran his contractor business, was in order.

T
he next morning, just after eight, Charlotte pocketed a flashlight and purposely walked past the Kenner house on her way to the office, though it was well off her usual route. The house appeared dark and empty. Adam had an office in town, and from his advertisements Charlotte found in the newspaper, Otto based his business out of the home they shared. It seemed both men were out and working already.

Taking her chances, Charlotte strode up to the front door and knocked. There wasn't a peep from inside, as she'd anticipated. She knocked louder, just in case. No one called out or came to the door.

Checking the late November, still dark street for passersby and finding herself alone, Charlotte made her way to the rear of the house. She pulled out her flashlight, turned it on, then passed through a double gate that could be opened wide enough to allow an automobile or cart. Within the yard, a tarp-covered stack of lumber stood beside a large, windowless shed. A padlock on the door meant she wouldn't get a peek inside. That was unfortunate. She hoped that what she wanted—whatever it might be—was in the house.

She climbed the wide covered porch, noting more wood and tools, and knocked on the back door. Cupping her hand around the head of the flashlight, she pointed it through the uncurtained window. A small, neat kitchen with two chairs, a rectangular table, an icebox, a coal stove, and a deep sink. A doorway led to a dark hall.

Keeping her light low, Charlotte turned the doorknob. The latch clicked open.

Her heart raced like a car on Mr. Vanderbilt's Motor Parkway. Snooping inside Lyle Fiske's desk was one thing, but she'd never broken into a home before. Though it wasn't exactly breaking in if the door was unlocked, was it? Besides, if one of the Kenners was involved with Lyle's death, there might be evidence or something to implicate them

Or there might not,
a little voice said in her head. And illegal entry negated anything James could use.

“But it could at least get him pointed in the right direction.”

Justification made, flimsy as it was, Charlotte opened the door and stepped into the Kenner home.

The aroma of coffee from breakfast hung in the air, the dishes washed and stacked beside the sink. A narrow hall led to a small bathroom under the staircase on the right, and a parlor straight ahead. Charlotte stood at the bottom of the stairs, listening for any indication of someone on the second floor. Hearing nothing but the beat of her own heart in her ears, she went to a closed door on the left.

She pressed her ear against the cool wood, her hand on the brass knob. Again, no sounds from within. She turned the knob slowly. The click of the latching mechanism sounded terribly loud in the still air and she winced. She pushed the door in, slowly easing it open enough to see the room was dark. Charlotte slipped inside and swept her flashlight beam in front of her, no higher than her knees to keep it from being seen through the window. Two filing cabinets of the same dark wood were against the left-hand wall.

A large wood desk with a leather chair occupied the far end of the room, with a slanted-top table at a ninety degree angle to the right of the desk. Corner to corner, the two work areas made a squat L-shape. The drafting table—at least that's what it looked like to Charlotte—benefitted from the natural light coming in from the window behind it. Perhaps Otto Kenner wasn't just a repairman and carpenter, but an architect or designer of some sort as well.

Charlotte glanced at the papers on the drafting table. The drawings appeared to be of a cabinet from several views. The notations on the paper were too small for her to read quickly, and she didn't have time or interest in Otto Kenner's work in progress at the moment.

She moved to the desk and sat. The leather chair was old and well worn. Opening the top drawer, she found typical office bric-a-brac, a few personal letters to Adam Kenner from people in Oregon, California, and New York. Nothing to or from Caroline Fiske, and none of the drawers held the mysterious black box. Not that Charlotte was expecting to find it there. If Adam had the box—and she doubted that was the case—he'd probably be smart enough to hide it in a more personal space like his bedroom.

A man's desk isn't personal?
the little voice chided. If she considered a home office more “public,” Charlotte didn't feel as guilty about looking inside. It was ridiculous, of course, but for the moment it rationalized what she was doing.

Finding nothing pertinent to either of the Fiskes in the desk, Charlotte got up and started looking through the filing cabinets. There was a drawer of client files, mostly Cordovans, but a few from other Alaska towns. Another drawer held what looked like Otto Kenner's materials orders and invoices for jobs he'd taken.

Odd, some of the orders were through Fiske's Hardware, but many were directly from a supplier in Seattle. Was Kenner getting a better price by buying directly? A closer look showed recent orders of large quantities of nails, screws, paints, solvents, and other materials. Why would a single-man operation require six cases of paint thinner or three hundred pounds of ten-penny nails? It's like he was opening his own business in competition with Fiske.

Charlotte stared down at the bills in her hand. The excessive order was dated a few months ago, not long after Mr. McGruder said Lyle and Otto had gotten into an argument at the Businessmen's dinner.

If Lyle thought Otto was offering the same goods to Cordova and trying to undercut his profits, tempers would flare, given the history between the men. Was that what happened the night of Lyle's murder?

But what would Otto care or know about the black box? How did it play into this, if it did at all? The box was fast becoming an important missing piece of the puzzle.

Charlotte returned the paperwork to their neat file folders in the drawers and considered going upstairs to check the bedrooms.

“In for a penny, in for a pound, right?” She wiped her sweat-slick hands on her coat.

And what if she did find something? What if she found the black box? How would she explain it to James? It was bad enough she'd have to make excuses for rifling through the Kenners' office. He'd never forgive her if she went further.

No, this was bad enough. Anything more was too much to risk.

Charlotte made her way back to the kitchen, again keeping her light low to allow her to see where she was placing her feet. Making sure no muck was left behind from her boots, she checked the yard and eased the kitchen door open.

Safely back on the porch, she gently closed the door.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing there?”

Charlotte spun, heart hammering and feet frozen to the floorboards. Otto Kenner strode across the yard through the open gate, his flashlight beam bouncing enough to show the snarl of anger on his face.

“I was just—”

“You were in my house,” he growled, heavy boots thudding up the porch steps. His free hand was balled in a fist. For half a second, Charlotte thought he was going to strike her. “I saw you coming out.”

Her back against the door, Charlotte's mind whirled. “I was looking to talk to you about a job. The door was unlocked and I—”

Otto grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the stairs. “Doesn't mean you can go inside uninvited. Let's go.”

Charlotte set her heels best she could on the wet porch, but Otto was stronger and determined. “Get your hands off me. What do you think you're doing?”

He didn't release her. “Taking you to the marshal.”

A jolt of trepidation shot through her. Damnation. James was going to kill her. But better she face James than the new constables. Charlotte didn't know them all that well and was sure they'd give her little to nothing as far as consideration. Lucky for her, most Cordovans were apt to still call on the marshal's office. Or perhaps not so lucky, depending on how angry James became.

“Mr. Kenner, I assure you, all I did was poke my head in to see if anyone was home.” Thank goodness she hadn't gone upstairs. Charlotte barely managed to keep her footing on the slick, half-frozen road. “Please let go of my arm.”

Otto's grip tightened. “I don't believe you. I'm bringing you to the marshal, then coming back to make sure you didn't take anything.”

“Of course I didn't take anything. This is all a misunderstanding.” At least as far as her being a thief was concerned.

Otto didn't care about misunderstandings. He half dragged her down Main Street. People opening their shops or on their way to work stopped and stared at the two of them. Charlotte's face heated as she tried to make it look like she and Otto were going along together, but the scowl on his face clearly said otherwise.

They reached the marshal's office. Otto yanked open the door. He didn't quite shove her inside, but he wasn't all that gentle either.

James rose from his chair, his expression one of curiosity mixed with irritation and concern. He came around the desk, fists clenched. “Easy there, Kenner. I'll not have you manhandling a woman in my presence.”

“She broke into my house,” Otto said by way of explanation. “Saw her coming out the kitchen door when I went back for some tools I needed on a job.”

James glared at him. “That's no excuse for treating Miss Brody in such a manner.” He met her gaze and the heat of embarrassment spread to her chest. “Miss Brody?”

“I was there to ask Mr. Kenner about fixing the steps of my house.” They needed repairing, and James knew it. It made her stomach ache to lie to him.

“A misunderstanding then,” James offered.

Relief eased some of the tension in her gut, but she was still lying to him and that wasn't right. She'd have to come clean eventually. “That's what I told him.”

“To hell with that,” Otto said, his face bright red under the office lights. “She had no business being in my house. I want her locked up. Now.”

Surely James could see that Otto was overreacting. It was obvious she hadn't taken anything. Was he afraid she'd seen something she shouldn't have? Charlotte wasn't about to admit to poking her nose into his business, since he was right on that account, but an innocent, rational man didn't demand someone get locked up for appearing to have entered their kitchen.

James rubbed his hands over his face, clearly unhappy with the entire situation. He strode over to her and gently took her upper arm. “Come on.”

Charlotte's jaw dropped. “You can't be serious.”

Her feet moved when he drew her toward the door marked “Jail,” but she was still unable to believe he was doing what he was doing.

Glancing over his shoulder at Otto, James said, “I'll be back in a minute to take your statement.”

He opened the door and led her down a short hallway that opened to a dingy white room. The two iron-barred cells, each with a single cot, an enameled sink, and a covered bucket, were empty. Thank goodness for small mercies.

“This is ridiculous,” Charlotte said.

James removed a ring of keys from a hook above the chair resting against the wall across from the cells. “I agree, but the law's the law. If Kenner wants to file a complaint and press charges, it's his right.” He led her to one of the cells and released her arm. “I'll try talking to him, but for now you're under arrest.”

It wasn't the first time Charlotte had heard those words, but coming from him, they stung. “Do you have to put me in a cell? I promise to sit here quietly until you come back.”

He held the metal frame of the door, not saying a word. His expression was cool, professional neutrality, but Charlotte felt his disappointment.

“Fine.” She entered the cell. Sure, he was just doing his job; he was also putting her in here to make a point.

“Sit tight,” he said, “and I'll be back as soon as I can.”

He swung the door closed with a gentle clang.

Charlotte grasped the cold bars. “I have a good reason for going inside his house.”

Despite his demeanor, he laughed. “I'm sure you do.”

James retreated down the hall. The door rattled closed.

Charlotte sat on the cot. Surely he'd convince the carpenter she was innocent. Well, of theft of any sort, anyway. Once Otto saw nothing was amiss, the worst she'd be in trouble for was illegal entry. The hard part would be persuading James that he needed to look closer at the Kenners and their interactions with Lyle Fiske without incriminating herself. Something was definitely fishy there.

She set her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her hands as she waited for James to return. No, he wouldn't appreciate her actions at all, because it was dishonest at the very least, and James was an honest man. But even his feelings for her, whatever they might be, wouldn't keep him from doing what was right.

* * *

The latch on the door leading to the marshal's office clicked. Hinges squealed. Charlotte sat up, rubbing her eyes. She'd lay down after a while, waiting for James to return, but hadn't fallen asleep. Checking the time on her pendant watch, she saw she'd been in the cell for nearly an hour.

James's heavy boot steps clomped down the short hall. He grabbed the back of the wooden chair, swung it around in front of Charlotte's cell, and straddled the seat. Arms crossed on the back, his blue eyes held hers. No nonsense here, they said.

“What's your side of things?”

Charlotte took a deep breath. She'd been rehearsing her case since he'd left her. It was pathetic, she knew, but at least she could offer him the truth now. “It's not what Otto Kenner believes. I did go into the house while they weren't there, but not to steal anything.”