Borrowing Death (13 page)

“I didn't think so, but you realize you just confessed to illegal entry, right?” James shook his head, resignation clear on his face. “Just tell me what you were doing in there.”

“Is he pressing charges?” Being held was one thing. Actually having a criminal record beyond the unlawful assembly charges out of New York was another.

He held her gaze for several moments, and Charlotte feared he was about to tell her she was getting her steamer ticket out of Alaska that night. “I managed to talk him out of it.”

Relief swept through her alongside an upwelling of appreciation for his support, even when he thought she was crossing the line. “Thank you.”

“Don't thank me yet,” he said. What was that supposed to mean? “Why were you in the house?”

“Caroline Fiske has likely been having an affair with Adam Kenner. Otto and Lyle had run-ins before over business dealings. I figured one or the other could have led to his murder.”

“You were looking for evidence of infidelity or something? What would that prove?”

He had a point, but Charlotte had more.

“Caroline is desperate to find the black box Lyle kept in his safe. I was looking to see if the Kenners had it. If it was there, then I'd guess that Otto or Adam Kenner killed Lyle.”

James stared at her, eyes narrowed as he contemplated her suspicions. “Adam kills Lyle, Caroline collects the insurance, they live happily ever after. Wouldn't be the first time that happened.”

“No, but Caroline doesn't have the box, and I doubt Adam would keep it from her. But Otto might.”

His grunt implied something between acknowledgement and disbelief.

“Did you break into the Fiskes' house too?” he asked in a half horrified way, frowning. How dreadful did he think she was?

“Of course not. I took a look-see in their home office during the visitation the other day.”

“Good God, Charlotte, the woman's in mourning.”

Apparently he thought she was pretty damn dreadful.

A sick feeling churned in her stomach. “I just did a quick search. It's not like I ransacked the place. Besides, even though Caroline had some sort of feelings toward her husband, she could have very well arranged for his death.”

His expression said she had a point, but she wasn't feeling terribly triumphant at the moment. “Fine. So nothing at the Fiskes' and nothing at the Kenners' home.”

“Something at the Kenners' home,” she corrected, “just not the box.”

He arched an eyebrow. “What? Not that anything you saw could be admissible in court.”

She ignored that fact for a minute. “I found shipping records and invoices for tools and solvents and nails. Stuff like that.”

“Shocking for a carpenter and builder.”

She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him. “But does a one-man operation need cases of paint thinner and three hundred pounds of nails? Kenner's shed doesn't seem large enough to hold all the things he's ordered in the last few months. Why order so much as winter sets in?”

James scratched his chin. “That does seem odd. I think Kenner has a warehouse someplace for larger projects. He could be doing extra inside work, or has contracted a number of furniture orders. Still, that's a lot of hardware.” He met her eyes again. “But you didn't know this before you went in.”

“No,” Charlotte admitted. “I'd heard Otto and Lyle were at odds. With that and the relationship between Adam and Caroline, I thought one or the other might be reason enough to kill Lyle.”

James rose and returned the chair to its spot against the wall. “And you figured you'd steer the investigation that way, even if I can't use what you found or how you found it.”

“I knew that if I gave you a hint you'd be able to pick it up and gather the proof you need.” She rose, anxious to get out of the cell and on with her day.

“The only problem with that, Miss Brody, is if anyone learns how I got my lead.”

“Mum's the word, right, deputy?” She gave him her most charming smile and was tickled when the corner of his mouth twitched as he tried not to smile back.

He shook his head, but didn't reach for the ring of keys hanging on the wall.

Her smile faltered as her joy sank. “You're not letting me out.”

“Kenner might not be pressing charges, but I need you to understand one thing, Charlotte. You shouldn't break the law in order to obtain information, no matter how critical it is to a case.”

She grasped the bars. Irritation warred with indignation. “I understand. Honest, I do.”

“I'm not so sure.” He turned and walked down the short hall.

“James! This isn't funny!”

“I'm not laughing,” he called back to her, but she had a feeling he was. At least a little.

“Come back here and let me out.”

“Later, after you've had a little time to think things over.” The door latch clicked.

“James!” She tried shaking the bars, but they didn't move. Not that she expected them to.

“Or tomorrow. We'll see.” The door rattled shut.

Charlotte stood there, thinking he'd be back any minute after giving her a good dose of reality. But he didn't return after a slow count to sixty, or one hundred twenty, or three hundred.

“Damnation.”

She threw herself back down on the cot, arms folded. He was being ridiculous and using his position inappropriately. It was completely unlike him.

And for some reason, that made her laugh.

* * *

James returned two hours later. Charlotte had gone from angry to amused to perturbed while she cooled her heels waiting for his little lesson to be over. Now she was behind in her work. If Mr. Toliver heard about what she'd done she might have to look for another job. Though maybe a jailbird assistant wouldn't bother the newspaper man all that much.

James snatched the ring of keys off the hook and opened the cell door.

Charlotte swept past him. Being released from jail always brought a sense of relief, no matter how minor or ludicrous the charges.

He touched her arm as she started toward the hall. Charlotte stopped and looked up at him, trying to appear more angry than she was. She'd lost time at the office, and her pride had been wounded, but she knew she'd been lucky Otto Kenner hadn't pressed charges. She was mad at James, but at herself as well.

“I didn't want to do this.” James's brow furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Charlotte busied herself buttoning her coat. “Of course you did. You want me to consider the ramification of my actions.” She met his gaze again. “I do, believe it or not. I know what I'm risking when I set out to investigate a story. But knowing there's risk won't stop me from doing my job, and it shouldn't stop you from doing yours. I don't expect special treatment.”

That wasn't completely true. Having a friend on the local police force was to a journalist's benefit, and often to the policeman's benefit. Mutual back-scratching and all that.

Charlotte started toward the door again, but James took hold of her sleeve. “Are you mad that I locked you up or because I never told you about Stella?”

She'd been hoping to forget about his soon-to-be ex-wife, but the prickling along the nape of her neck made it clear that wasn't happening in the near future.

“I resent that you assume my anger is about your ex-wife,” she said. “But if you must know, yes, I am upset you never told me about her.”

James's eyes widened at her response. Maybe he wasn't expecting her honesty. She hadn't expected it either, truth be told.

Charlotte took a deep breath and let it out slowly in an effort to calm herself. “I understand why you did what you did in both situations, but it doesn't mean I have to like it. Can I go now? I have to make up time at the paper.”

He released her sleeve.

Charlotte walked through the main room, grateful Marshal Blaine was either gone or shut within his private office. James followed her as far as his desk, silent as she went out the front door. She refused to look at him, and closed the door firmly behind her.

A wet snow was falling, filling the street with a new layer of white. Charlotte set her hat on her head, ignored the rumble in her stomach, and set off to work. The clomp-sploosh of her boots on the walkway and slow, even breathing helped clear her head and cool her ire.

He was just doing his job, protecting himself as well as protecting her. Who could fault him for that?

A
long night at the paper, where she and Mr. Toliver worked side by side at the Linotype and printing press to get the paper ready, meant less sleep than usual for Charlotte. She didn't explain to him why she was behind when he came in at eight that evening, and thankfully Toliver was more concerned about getting the
Times
out than excuses.

Tossing and turning when she finally did get to bed, alternately angry with James and berating herself for her own antics, made the night that much shorter, and now her morning would be that much more of a challenge. The headache pulsing against her temples wasn't appreciated either.

Having her thoughts devolve into wondering why James kept his marital status to himself, and the stress of her own secret-keeping, didn't help matters. Everyone deserved privacy, but Charlotte irrationally thought he should have told her about Stella. On the other hand, she wasn't about to share her most intimate past activities with him.

Now that his secret was out, was she obligated to tell him about Richard? About the pregnancy? About—

Charlotte flung the covers off and got out of bed. The cold floor shocked her brain back on the right track. No, she wouldn't tell him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. James neglecting to tell her, and likely others, he was married was one thing. Admitting she'd been foolish by being with Richard, believing lies, then putting herself at risk and breaking laws was another.

She dressed quickly and washed up, too agitated to even consider going back to sleep though it was barely six in the morning. She'd work on her
Modern Woman
serial while breakfasting on a cup of coffee and some toast. Maybe she'd surprise Michael by doing a bit of filing or transcribing patient notes. He'd said Mary wasn't working full-time for him yet, and she probably couldn't read Charlotte's shorthand.

After an hour of typing, her back and shoulders tight and a few too many pages corrected or crumpled in the wastebasket, she decided it was time for some fresh air to help clear her head.

One slippery step on the porch told her the temperature had dropped considerably overnight, freezing the slush to a hard, uneven surface. She turned back to dig a pair of crampons out of a bin near the entry. The Gibbinses had warned her they might come in handy.

After buckling the spikes to her boots, Charlotte turned on her flashlight and made her way down the dark, quiet streets to Michael's office. It was black as pitch on the road and eerily silent at such an early hour. A few distant clanks and clatters assured her she wasn't the only human being awake in Cordova.

Once she reached Main Street, the streetlights were sufficient to make her way without tripping over the edge of the walk or slipping on a patch of ice. She used her copy of Michael's key to open the outer door of his office. Charlotte found the switch on the wall and turned it. The office was cold and the exam room door was ajar, though dark within. She'd expect Michael to be up soon to open the door to his private quarters and allow some warmth from his stove to seep in. In the meantime, she'd keep her coat on.

Charlotte closed the outer door quietly, removed her spike-clad boots, and crossed to the desk. She turned on the lamp, the additional light brightening the small, chilled space. As suspected, a pile of patient files was stacked on the corner of the desk awaiting some organization. Settling on the cushioned chair, she pulled the top file and got to work.

She was halfway through the files an hour later when she heard Michael moving about in his room. The aroma of coffee drifted through the gap around the door.

“Pour me a cup, would you?” she called loudly.

Something clattered and fell, and a muffled curse made her grin. Michael's door flew open and he stumbled out, barefooted, shirt open at the throat, hair mussed.

“Christ, Charlotte. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

She rose and stretched, unable to hide her amusement. “Sorry. I got up early and decided to make up for neglecting you.”

He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing down the blond strands only to have a few fall over his forehead. “Thanks, but warn a guy next time, if you please.”

“I'll see what I can do.” She sat again and straightened papers. “I didn't want your new girl to get thrown into a mess. When will she be starting full time?”

“Soon, I hope,” he said. “We're still working out a schedule. I may be taking an office in another building, probably over the drugstore. It's too damn cold in here.”

Charlotte rubbed her hands together. “Agreed. And how civilized of you to have an office separate from your house.”

“It's convenient here though, when someone comes in the dead of night with an emergency. I don't have to get completely dressed to see them.” He slipped his suspenders over his shoulders. “Since you're here, come on back and have some coffee.”

The outer door squeaked open and a quiet, young voice drifted into the room. “It's okay, Esther. Doctor Brody's a nice man. He'll help.”

Michael and Charlotte exchanged curious glances. He obviously wasn't expecting patients at this hour.

Two girls of twelve or thirteen, covered head to toe in wool caps, coats, and sturdy boots, came in, stopping suddenly when they saw Michael and Charlotte. One, taller than her friend, dropped her gaze to her feet. The other shut the door and looked directly at Michael.

“Rebecca, what's the matter?” he asked. “What are you doing here so early?”

“Saw your lights on and figured you were open,” the bolder of the two girls said. “This is my friend Esther. She needs your help.”

Both Rebecca and Esther had dark hair and the complexion of Alaska Natives. A rosy undertone to Rebecca's skin showed in her cold-reddened cheeks. It was difficult to see Esther's face with her head down. Rebecca, however, had no trouble meeting the eyes of either adult in the room. Maybe familiarity with Michael helped that, but Charlotte got the impression she was a leader among her peers.

“What's the problem, Esther?” Michael asked gently. He was very good at putting people at ease, understanding that coming to his office was often a stressful situation. “Are you hurt or sick?”

Esther flicked a glance up at him. “My mother and brother,” she said so softly Charlotte barely heard the words.

Rebecca took her hand. “She's shy. Was all I could do to get her to come see you. Her mother and little brother have had a bad cough for a couple weeks. Right, Esther?” Esther nodded. “A village woman gave them some medicine, but they aren't getting better. She thinks it might be the same sickness from last year.”

A jolt of concern went through Charlotte. The flu pandemic had finally waned after killing millions around the world, and only since the previous spring in Alaska. Entire villages in the territory had been wiped out, either directly or indirectly, as people succumbed to the disease or starved or froze to death when family members who hunted and tended fires passed away. The idea of another wave of influenza striking would panic the town.

“I told Esther you were a big help when my mother was sick,” Rebecca continued, “and that you did everything you could for her.”

Michael's expression turned sad as he met Charlotte's eyes. “Mrs. Derenov,” he said by way of explanation.

Charlotte considered the young woman before her. Rebecca Derenov wasn't just a bold girl speaking up for her friend, but one who understood that sometimes people died despite all efforts. She didn't hold Michael responsible for the death of her mother, an indication of a level of maturity even some adults lacked.

“I'd be happy to stop in and see them,” Michael said to Esther. “I doubt it's the same sickness as last year, but I want to make sure. Where do you live?”

Esther and Rebecca consulted in whispered words, half in English and half in the Eyak language, from what Charlotte could tell.

“Out along the lake. Not too far to walk. Can you come with us after school?” Rebecca finally said. Her dark eyes were full of hope and determination. “I'll just have to let my brother know where I'm going.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Michael said, giving them a friendly smile. Though Esther probably hadn't noticed with her head down. “Come get me when classes are over and we'll go together.”

Rebecca nodded and took her friend's arm. “We'll be here. Come on, Esther, we don't want to be late.”

Esther glanced up at Michael, gave him a fleeting smile, then hurried out into the cold and dark with Rebecca.

“She's quite the go-getter,” Charlotte said. “Seems older than her years.”

“Yeah, Rebecca was the sole caregiver when her mother fell ill.” He started back toward his living quarters. Charlotte followed, enticed by the promise of coffee and learning more about the girl. “Mr. Derenov had died a couple of years before, and their boy, Ben, was down in the States. Well, not a boy, a young man. He's a good nine or ten years older than Rebecca.”

“No local friends or family?” Charlotte knew the Native community in the Cordova area was tight-knit, helping each other in numerous ways.

“Mrs. Derenov didn't have any family here,” he said. “A few folks helped when she became ill, but there were some bad feelings between Ben Senior and his family. Marrying a white woman might have had something to do with it, I'm not sure. There may have been a falling out before that. A number of the white folks here had less than positive opinions as well, unfortunately.”

“Not just here,” Charlotte said. The blatant racism across the country made her cringe. Even within her own cause, which was supposed to be fighting for equality for all.

Michael shook his head as he poured them each a cup of coffee. “Attitudes are a little better now, but not by much, and the kids suffer from the adults' prejudices. Ben Junior had a real rough time of it, from what Mrs. Derenov told me. Lots of fights at school, then later when he was working. He decided to leave town and start over down south.”

Funny how some came to Alaska to start again and others left for the same reason.

“That must have been hard on everyone.” Charlotte sat at his rickety little table and stirred sugar into her coffee. “Did Ben get back up here before his mother passed?”

“Barely,” Michael said. He picked up his pocket watch from the top of the dresser, wound it, then put it to his ear, grimacing as he shook the timepiece and wound it some more. “She was gone within the week he returned. It's been just him and Rebecca ever since.”

“How sad.” She couldn't imagine the heartache of traveling so far just to watch your mother die. And for Rebecca to lose both parents so young? It happened all too frequently, and kids usually turned out fine, but Charlotte knew there were hardships and difficulties the Derenov children would face.

She pushed aside the thought of her own parents back in New York. They were both in good health. No reason to worry herself.

“Rebecca's a good kid, smart as can be,” Michael said, tying his tie. “Be a shame if she had to quit school.”

“Why would she have to do that?”

“I hear Ben's still having a tough time. Other than the occasional odd job, like for the Fiskes, I don't know that he has a regular income. Unfortunately, his reputation as a troublemaker hasn't faded from memory.” He came to the table and sat with her to don his wool socks. “With little to no income, it'll be very difficult for them to survive up here.”

The idea of sacrificing Rebecca's education piqued Charlotte's passions. “That's not right. The best thing for a young woman—for anyone—is to get as complete an education as possible. It's the key to equality.”

Michael smoothed down his pant leg. “I agree, and I hope it doesn't come to that. But the graduation rate is iffy, more so for Native kids. If they make it to the eighth grade they're doing well. A number of families—white and Native—need the income from as many hands as possible.”

“And that income would be higher the longer they're able to stay in school, and better if they can go beyond a high school education.” She was gripping the coffee mug tightly with both hands. “Children like Rebecca Derenov and her friend Esther need to go to school.”

“Maybe, if she and Ben stay here, she'll be able to keep going.” He didn't sound hopeful. “If they head back to the States, it may be as tough or tougher on them.”

“We can't let that happen,” Charlotte said. The idea of such a bright and caring young woman missing the opportunity for an education because of basic financial need made her sick to her stomach.

“It's not up to us,” Michael said. “They have to do what they can to survive.”

“Someone has to convince them, convince Ben, that keeping his sister in school is critical.” She considered the Derenovs' situation. “Can't you see if there's anyone who can give him a good enough job to allow them to stay?”

“People aren't keen on others butting into their business, you know.”

“I know, Michael, but this girl's well-being is at stake, don't you think? And as her doctor . . .” She was playing into his sense of dedication to his patients' entire health, but she felt no guilt in doing so.

“Okay, I'll ask, but there are no guarantees.” He rose, rinsed his coffee cup in the sink, then gave her a peck on the cheek. “I have rounds at the hospital, then a few homebound patients to tend.”

Charlotte followed him to the outer office. “We need to do something, Michael.”

He shrugged into his coat and donned his boots. Grabbing his black bag from behind the desk, he said, “We're outsiders, Charlotte. Ben Derenov is his sister's closest family and he's an adult. He makes the final decisions for her. We can advocate, but browbeating isn't going to work. Lock up when you leave, please. Bye, Sis.”