Borrowing Death (18 page)

Charlotte pulled open the door to the office. James wasn't at his desk, and the door to Marshal Blaine's private office was closed. The low rumble of male voices came from behind the frosted glass. She stopped at the door and listened. Not to eavesdrop, really, but to ascertain the tone of the conversation. If it sounded like James and the marshal were having a heated argument, Charlotte would come back another time. No yelling or raised tones.

Were they discussing the Fiske case?

She made herself as comfortable as she could on the straight-back chair before James's desk. There were papers and files open for all to see, and it was too tempting not to look.

A quick glance told her the pages had nothing to do with the Fiske case. Uninterested in Mr. Vero's complaint against Mr. Harris for busting his fence, she shifted on the chair and settled in. She didn't have to wait long. The marshal's door opened and James came out, a scowl on his face.

Uh-oh. Maybe she shouldn't have stayed after all. The conversation with the marshal may have been in civil tones, but whatever was said had irritated the deputy.

When he saw her sitting at his desk, James's frown softened to a smile. Charlotte's heart made an off-rhythm twitch. The memory of their kisses—the first in the rain outside Sullivan's rooming house in August, the one two days ago behind the rail yard—came rushing back in a warm wave.

Behind him, Marshal Blaine stood at his door. He gave Charlotte a curt nod. She and the marshal were friendly enough, though certainly not bosom buddies. He was tolerant of her questions, which she appreciated. Charlotte nodded back, smiling. He closed his door.

“Miss Brody. How are you today?” James asked as he came around the desk.

“Good evening, deputy. I'm well. How are you? How was your jaunt out the rail line?”

Since their walk and kiss, things had gone back to normal between them, yet there was still an underlying tension. At least on her part. She wasn't sure what to do about her feelings about him. Or what, exactly, those feelings were. Just friends? More? Kissing him sure made if difficult not to think of the potential for more. It was all a big muddle in her head. His patience while she figured it out was nearly that of a saint compared to other men she knew.

“Bob Dexter thinks someone's stealing his chickens, and Sarah Paine threatened her husband with a shotgun.” He sat down. “Nothing too unusual. What can I do for you?”

Charlotte was grateful he was able to set aside their pesky personal issues and get to the point. It was something she needed to work on. “I want to talk to you about a couple of things.”

“Related to the Fiske case, I reckon?”

“Yes, though I'm not sure what you already know or what might be useful.”

“Won't know until you tell me,” he said, grinning.

“True. First off, did you know about Fiske's illegal pawn operation?”

The pleasant look on his face turned sour. “I did, though we never had anyone come right out and accuse him of anything we could nail him on. Mostly rumors and the like. Folks are pretty tight-lipped over illegal doings around here.”

Charlotte stared at him, a glimmer of hurt in her chest. “You knew? Why didn't you tell me? What if the robbery and murder were related to that and not just random chance?”

“Because I can't share everything I know about every case, Charlotte. I wouldn't be doing my job if I spilled all my inside knowledge, now, would I?”

He had a point, but it still rankled a bit that he'd held back.

“The question is,” he said, “how do
you
know about it?”

She smiled sweetly at him. “Now, James, I can't share anonymous sources, can I? My job relies upon a certain amount of trust and discretion.”

His lips pressed together and he narrowed his eyes. “Funny. So what do you know about Fiske's side business?”

“Probably not as much as you do, but what I do know is that someone is returning things that Fiske was holding.” The surprised look on his face made her feel better about their little information game.

“Why do that? And how?”

Charlotte shrugged. “I have no idea about the why. Guilt? Sympathy for people being under Fiske's thumb? As for the how, that would have to do with the notebook Fiske kept.”

“Notebook? I'm guessing he kept it in the same box Caroline was looking for.” James rubbed his palm over the new beard on his chin. “Makes sense that Fiske kept some sort of record. The thief takes this box with some small items people pawned, the notebook, and the legal papers. Maybe some money too. But he doesn't want everything in the box. Papers might be kept or thrown out. As for the pawned goods, may be hard to sell them here.”

“Or he feels guilty, or wants Lyle's customers to get their things back without paying,” she reminded him.

“Right. So how did your source get their item back?”

Being careful not to use specific pronouns, she said, “They found it on their porch in a plain package.”

“And came to you. Why?”

“Because they wanted to remain anonymous, of course.” It seemed simple and reasonable to her, but the perturbed look on his face told her James didn't quite feel the same way. “Honestly, James, telling the marshal's office might be more trouble for them, don't you think?”

“What I think is this person might have been the killer. Maybe they were lying about how they ‘found' their pawned item and came to you to appear to be innocent. Did you consider that?”

Of course she hadn't, because she knew Della wouldn't have done such a thing. Well, probably not. But she definitely wasn't the perpetrator in this case. “My source doesn't fit the description of someone seen at the fire.”

“What?” He sat up straighter, if that was possible, eyes bright. “You have information? A witness?”

She had promised Henry she wouldn't snitch, and she'd keep that promise. “I do. Well, in a manner of speaking.”

James's forehead furrowed, then he quirked an eyebrow at her. “Will I ever get a straight answer from you?”

Charlotte smiled, but her stomach quivered for some reason.
Probably not
. “I will when I can, or if it's dire. You know that.”

He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head slightly. “So what do you have that you
can
tell me?”

She took a deep breath. “The arsonist wasn't responsible for the Fiske fire.”

“And you know this how?”

“Another reliable anonymous source.” That was true. She trusted Henry despite his admission.

“You mean the arsonist.” James leaned forward, forearms on the desk, his eyes hard and intense. “You spoke to him.”

“I did, and he promised no more fires.” Charlotte hoped Henry was finished, for the year at least. Whether he'd feel the need to set more next year on the anniversary of his parents' death remained to be seen. “But there's something he told me you should know.”

Obviously frustrated with her or the arsonist, he raked his fingers through his hair and sat back. “He was at Fiske's that night. What—”

She held up a hand to forestall his asking the questions she knew were popping into his head. “Near, but not responsible for the fire. He saw someone coming out of the front door right before flames erupted.”

“Who?”

“He couldn't tell me. The man he saw was turned away from him. All he saw was dark hair and a strong build, and something in the man's hands. Likely the box.”

“Clothing? Where was the arsonist when he saw this? What time had he been there? Did he hear any arguing? See anyone else? Damn it, Charlotte—”

“Slow down. I'll tell you all I know.” She relayed Henry's description and what had happened and what he saw, though it wasn't as detailed as James probably wanted. There was no confirmed identification or any indication Fiske and his killer had exchanged words.

James took notes, his lips pressed together. When she finished, he tapped his pen on the desk. “It's not much.”

“No, but it's more than you had.”

He held her gaze. “And you're sure your arsonist wasn't involved.”

“He's not my arsonist, just a source. He didn't have to come to me at all, you know.”

The deputy laid the pen down and sighed. “I know, but he trusted you for some reason. So did your pawn client. Why?”

Charlotte shrugged. She couldn't say much more without betraying Henry or Della. “I'm a trustworthy soul?”

The corner of James's mouth ticked upward. “That must be it.”

She blew a raspberry at him, and he chuckled. “Maybe because I'm less intimidating that a certain lawman. Seriously, James, while the man's face might not have been seen, it sounds like he was too broad in the shoulders to be Adam Kenner.”

“If not Adam—”

“Otto.” Charlotte had been leaning toward the elder Kenner.

“Maybe,” James said emphatically. “Or it was someone completely different. There's no evidence Otto is responsible or has motive, other than he and Fiske didn't get along.”

“If that personality clash meant Otto felt his business was being threatened, he had strong motivation and opportunity. Who else would want Lyle dead, accidentally or otherwise? Surely the man didn't have that many mortal enemies.”

“Another pawn customer? Someone who felt cheated by Fiske?”

She had to agree that it was possible. But who? How many were there? “There has to be more than a few. Without the notebook, there's no way to find out.” Charlotte stood, buttoning her coat. “There isn't much in the way of tangible evidence, is there?”

“Find the box and we find the notebook.” James rose and followed her to the door. “I can look closer at Otto Kenner, but not at the expense of wearing blinders to other possibilities. I'll talk to him again, see if I can trip him up over his alibi. He leases a warehouse near the canneries from Squint Bauer. That might have something in it.”

The thrill of the hunt for evidence went through her. “Are you going out there?”

“Me, yes. You, no.” Warning and concern filled his eyes. “I'm serious, Charlotte. Otto's ready to blame you for anything and everything that happens to him. Don't give him reason to charge you with harassment or do something worse than haul you into my office. If he catches you anywhere near him and I'm not around, I'm afraid I'd have to charge him with some terrible crime.” He lifted her chin slightly and stared into her eyes. “If I don't kill him first.”

“You wouldn't.” His confession and guilt over the man he'd hurt when he suspected Stella of cheating on him had made Charlotte believe James would never do such a thing again. “You promised.”

“I promised to not beat a man in a jealous rage. I make no such promises when it comes to protecting you.”

James touched his lips to hers and Charlotte closed her eyes. She placed her palm on his chest to steady herself. God help her, she shouldn't let him do things like this.

Stop fooling yourself. You aren't “letting” him do anything you don't want
.

True. Too true.

Pushing herself away from him, she took an extra half step back and said, “Let's hope it doesn't come to anything that drastic.”

He lowered his hand. “It won't. But it's better if you wait for me to give you information rather than poke around on your own.”

“You would think I was coming down with something if I ever did that.” She set her hat on her head, grinning, trying to pretend her lips weren't still tingling.

James opened the door. “That's the truth. Have a good evening, Miss Brody.”

“You too, deputy.”

Charlotte left the federal building. Standing on the walk, she drew in a long, slow breath. The cold cleared her head some, but it didn't erase the sensation of his mouth on hers.

Damnation.

O
n Tuesday morning, Charlotte stood in the middle of the post office, fishing in her satchel for the key Mr. Toliver had given her. The damn thing always seemed to make its way into the corner of her bag, often hiding until she dumped the contents out.

Ah! There it was. She extracted the key and fit it into the lock of box number 502. Inside were several subscription payments and a bill for Mr. Toliver from Lerner & Sons Menswear in Seattle.

Charlotte tucked the mail into her satchel and closed the brass door.

“Miss Brody, do you have a minute?”

Caroline Fiske, dressed in widow's black, stood with her gloved hands grasping a small purse. Her makeup, little that Charlotte could detect, didn't quite cover the bruise-colored circles under her eyes, and her pale complexion attested to restless nights.

“Of course, Mrs. Fiske. What can I do for you?”

Caroline glanced over at the mail clerk standing behind the counter, making no pretense that she wasn't listening. She grinned at the two women.

“Perhaps we can take a walk, if you're not in a hurry,” Caroline suggested.

“I'm not.”

Caroline led the way to the post office door and held it for Charlotte. Charlotte preceded her down the stairs, ready to grasp the bannister should she slip or—

Caroline Fiske wasn't about to shove her down the stairs. Even if she had masterminded her husband's murder, surely she wouldn't try to kill Charlotte literally in front of the marshal's office on the ground floor.

When she reached the bottom, Charlotte tried to ignore the fact that James was likely on the other side of the door. He was a different risk altogether.

Caroline joined her and the two continued onto the walk. The noon whistle at the rail yard had blown less than an hour before and the sun peeked through fat white clouds. The snow had abated for the time being, giving everyone the chance to shovel walks.

Up the street, the man from the Brite-White Laundry secured a bundle of clothes on a sled. The six-dog team yipped and yapped, dancing in place. The man stepped onto the back of the sled, jerked the snow hook from the ground, and grasped the handlebar.

“Hike!” he yelled, and the dogs bolted, yapping excitedly. “Hike,” he called again, and the dogs ran faster.

Like a scene from
The Call of the Wild
—minus the laundry bags—the sled zipped down the snowy street, heading east out of town, the man encouraging his team all the way. Though Charlotte knew the delivery man worked long, hard hours, it sure looked like he was having a good time. The dogs certainly were.

“Are you headed to your office?” Caroline asked.

“I am. What did you want to talk to me about?”

They started walking, but Caroline didn't speak until they passed a pair of men standing outside the cigar store beside the federal building.

“You spoke to Adam the other night,” she said. It was a simple statement, with no inflection of accusation or concern. No emotion of any sort that Charlotte could detect.

“I did.”

“And he told you about my marriage.” She flicked a glance at Charlotte, but nothing more.

“He did.”

Caroline nodded. Was she only after confirmation? Not likely.

“Do you truly think Adam killed Lyle?”

The abruptness of Caroline's question surprised Charlotte. Subtlety was not on the table this afternoon.

“Do you?” Charlotte asked. From Henry's description of the man he saw at Fiske's Hardware that night, she figured Otto for the murder. Could the brothers have schemed together?

Caroline didn't hesitate. “No. Adam is a good man. He has a kind heart. He wouldn't do something like that.”

“Even if you asked him to?”

She stopped in the middle of the walk and stared at Charlotte. There was no vehement reaction of denial. No demand that Charlotte take back such a terrible accusation. Was Caroline concerned that Adam could have taken matters into his own hands after hearing about the humiliation and abuse she suffered at Lyle's? If he had, would Adam withhold the papers he knew she was so desperate to find? To what end? Even if Adam didn't want to present them to her himself, he could find a way to have the papers delivered anonymously.

Caroline rubbed a tic that flickered at the corner of her left eye. After a moment, she resumed walking. Charlotte kept pace with her.

“No. And I wouldn't have asked him to kill Lyle, even if I thought he'd do it. Lyle and I had our problems, and I'll admit he could be brutal at times, but I didn't hate him enough to have anyone kill him.”

But perhaps, given time, she would have? Or would have done it herself? No sense in speculating about a crime that would never happen.

“What about Otto?” Charlotte asked.

Caroline sighed and shook her head. Not in denial, more like resignation. “Otto. He and Lyle had a few run-ins.”

“I understand they were at odds over your late husband's business practices.” That was all the detail Charlotte had, but maybe implying she knew more would get Caroline to expand on the subject.

“They were, and rightfully so,” she said, skirting a pile of dirty snow on the walkway. “Lyle enjoyed being the king of Cordova hardware. Otto threatened to start a boycott and bring in his own materials.”

From what Charlotte had seen of his inventory list, it seemed he'd more than threatened. But eliminating a business rival would defeat Otto's free market ideals. Unless something got out of hand.

“Do you think Otto had the wherewithal to kill him?”

Caroline barely hesitated. “Given the proper circumstances, I think he's capable of all sorts of acts. Otto is a volatile man. He sticks to his guns and is hard to move.”

“So you think he could have done it,” Charlotte said.

“I think it's possible.” Caroline emphasized the last word, clearly unwilling to make blatant accusations. Knowing Otto Kenner's temper, Charlotte couldn't blame her.

They were almost to the
Times
office, and Charlotte had a question she wanted cleared up. “Caroline, what happens if you don't retrieve the papers in the box?”

The widow's brow furrowed. “Lyle has grown children from his first marriage, down in Seattle. They hardly ever contacted him after we moved here, but they are happy to take his money. Despite his actions with me, he always tried to do right by them financially.”

“And without the papers in the box they get everything?”

Caroline smiled, but it was brittle and forced. “Almost everything. I'd have the house here. They'd get all the business and life insurance if the old copies of his will and insurance policies on file down there are the most recent ones. He told me he'd made a new will and took out new policies with different lawyers and a different insurance company, but never gave me details.”

“But you were his wife.”

“Indeed. It's something he'd been holding over me for years. If I stayed married to him, played my part, and kept my affairs quiet and discrete, I'd inherit.” She let out a humorless laugh. “I asked myself every day if it's been worth it.”

Adam had said Caroline was truly devastated by Lyle's death. She didn't sound devastated to Charlotte. “So having Lyle dead works in your favor.”

They stopped outside the
Times
office. Caroline turned to her, dark eyes hard. “Not if I don't have what I need. With him dead and the papers missing, I'm at the mercy of lawyers and his children.” She took a long slow breath. “That's the point I want to make, Charlotte. Lyle's death wasn't in my best interest. I didn't do it, obviously, and I didn't have Adam do it. I'd appreciate it if you'd stop pursuing that line of thought.”

“The truth, whatever it is, will come out one way or another, Caroline.” Charlotte sympathized with the woman and wanted to believe Adam was innocent, but claims of innocence to mislead an investigation weren't new tricks. “If there's any proof that Adam had a hand in this, the marshal's office will find it. If Adam's innocent, then the best thing he—and you—can do is be honest and cooperative.”

“And do what, admit to the entire town I've been sleeping with another man? Tell them my husband was a horrible human being? That will do more harm than good.” Caroline pulled her gloves on in short, quick movements. “We are innocent, and I'd greatly appreciate it if you'd leave us alone.”

She continued down the walk, arms swinging stiffly at her sides.

Charlotte watched until Caroline turned the corner, presumably headed back to her home. Did the lady protest too much? Did she know more than she was letting on? If not, why come to Charlotte? To plant the seeds of innocence? Caroline had defended herself and Adam, but she implied Otto was capable of killing Lyle.

What, exactly, had been going on between the two men? More than disagreements over the price of nails and hammers, Charlotte would wager.

Charlotte turned around and made her way toward City Hall. All she needed was a quick look at the public records, specifically land holdings, to find the location of Squint Bauer's warehouse.

* * *

The night couldn't fall fast enough for Charlotte. Even though it was dark by six in the evening, she waited another hour to reduce the chances of being seen by someone heading home for dinner. It was, perhaps, the longest hour ever, as she talked herself into and out of her plan a dozen times, knowing it was potentially dangerous. Otto Kenner couldn't do anything if she was on public property or property owned by someone else. Not legally do anything himself, anyway. But knowing his temper, and his attitude toward her, he might not care if she wasn't breaking the law this time.

Dressed in a pair of her brother's old trousers, a thick shirt, an old coat Mr. Gibbins had left behind, and her heavy winter boots, Charlotte tucked her hair up under her hat, wrapped her scarf around her face, and set out toward the row of warehouses down on the road to the canneries. She was able to use the streetlights for a short part of the journey, but once she got to the burned ruins of Fiske's Hardware, she had to rely upon the full moon. There was a flashlight in her coat pocket that she'd turn on if and when she was sure no one was about.

According to the city records, Bauer's lot was roughly a block and a half past Fiske's. He owned three good-sized buildings, leasing two of them to locals. One was Kenner's, of course, and the other, she'd learned, was storage for Clive Wilkes's transportation operation. Clive used his Studebaker Touring Car as a taxi, but also owned an open-bed truck, tarps, straps, and other equipment required for large, heavy loads. The other Bauer building was used by the Bauers themselves for their plumbing and heating business.

It was the building at the back of the property, tucked into the shadows, that Charlotte sought. A few dozen feet from the nearest neighbor, the warehouse Otto Kenner used was far enough away to allow him to work on carpentry projects without interruption by or interruption to his neighbors. With its main doors facing away from the others, it allowed a certain amount of privacy as well.

Charlotte followed the frozen, rutted footpath around the first two buildings, avoiding the road on the other side of the buildings and staying in the shadows where she could. If anyone came along, she had little option but to dash behind a scraggly, ice-rimed bush.

As she drew closer to Kenner's building, she stopped for a moment to catch her breath and listen. Nothing from the buildings she'd passed. Nothing coming along the path or the road that she could see or hear. Focusing on the structure ahead of her, Charlotte thought she heard voices. There were no windows on this side, just weathered planks and snow drifts.

Before reaching the corner at the front, Charlotte moved off the packed snow of the path and pressed her left shoulder to the wall. Anyone checking would see her boot prints in the untouched snow, but maybe they'd think it was a kid or something. Better to have them see her prints later than risk being seen right in front of Kenner's business. Creeping along, her boots crunching softly in the snow, she listened for others, especially wary of hearing Otto's gruff voice. She reached the corner of the building.

There. Low voices and the sound of wood scraping on wood from inside.

Charlotte removed her hat and crouched down. Slowly, she eased forward to peek around the corner. The front of the warehouse was open, with a wide door slid aside to allow a dark green truck with an enclosed bed to have backed in. A regular-sized door was closer to her, no more than ten feet away. The vehicle's engine was off, as were its headlights, and a dim light glowed from deeper within the building. There was no way to see what was inside because of the truck and her viewing angle.

“Five hundred, just as we agreed,” an unfamiliar male voice said. Charlotte could vaguely make out a figure near the driver's door.

“The next shipment might take a bit,” Otto Kenner replied. He had to be standing right near the man, but she couldn't see him. “I'll let you know when it comes in.”

“Sounds good.”

The man climbed into the truck and started the engine. He didn't turn on the lights as he pulled away, and Otto had the warehouse door almost closed by the time the rear of the truck cleared the opening.

Damnation.

What were Otto and the man doing there after typical business hours? What shipment was coming in?

If she could only get inside and see what Otto kept there.

Charlotte started to rise. A strong hand clamped down on the lower half of her face. A thick arm wrapped around her chest, grasping her too-large coat and yanking her backwards. She would have screamed if she could have drawn a breath, but she could only gasp into the heavy leather glove over her mouth.