Borrowing Death (4 page)

She turned and stared at him, her body suddenly tense, aware of his proximity. Why
had
she asked? Honesty seemed the best course with James Eddington. “Because I enjoy your company.”

Even if he did seem to tie her tongue at times.

The smile he gave her brought out the dimple in his cheek. “The feeling's mutual, Miss Brody.” He tugged the brim of his hat. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, deputy,” she said, more breathlessly than intended.

He made his way down the stairs and strode back toward Main Street. As she watched him turn the corner, Charlotte wondered for the umpteenth time if she'd ever be able to let herself truly relax around him.

B
y the time she rested, washed up, and managed a rough draft of a slightly more detailed article on the Fiske fire, it was early afternoon and Charlotte was ready for lunch. Nothing in the icebox or pantry caught her fancy. A visit to the café for a bowl of soup sounded perfect on a blustery day. Afterward, she'd go into the
Times
office and start on tomorrow's paper.

With her satchel packed and her coat buttoned to her throat, Charlotte headed out. A deep breath of clear, cold air brought the fishy bite of low tide to her nose. Blue sky peeked over the mountains to the east. Perhaps a reprieve from the cold, wet, gray was on its way, but she wouldn't hold her breath waiting for it.

The train whistle sounded at about mile two of the rail line, warning of its arrival. The CR&NW carried copper ore from the Kennecott mine over one hundred miles to the north, rumbled through town on its way to pick up cargo at the canneries, then continued out to the ocean docks to fill freighters. Passengers utilized the small station closer to town, taking the train from Cordova into the interior of the territory to Chitina and Kennecott.

Charlotte hurried as fast as she could without slipping. If the train was on time, and it usually was, it was after two and she had a busy workday ahead before press time.

She waved to business neighbors shoveling slush off their walks as she picked her way down to Main Street. Arriving at the café, Charlotte pulled open the door and was immediately met with the welcoming aroma of coffee and bacon. The lunch crowd was gone, with only a few folks finishing up their meals or lingering over the paper. She was always tickled to see readers intent on the
Times
. Were they reading her piece?

Charlotte claimed her usual seat at the counter, placed her satchel at her feet, and unbuttoned her coat. She was too chilled to remove it, but sitting in the toasty café would remedy that soon enough.

“Afternoon, Miss Brody.” Henry hurried behind the counter, coffeepot in hand, and took a cup and saucer from the stack against the wall. He poured out a cup for Charlotte. “What can I get for you today?”

“What's the soup of the day?” She wrapped her hands around the heated cup.

“Beef barley. Might be a bowl left. We were busy.” He set the pot back on the small stove. Reaching along the counter, Henry placed a sugar bowl and a small pitcher of cream near Charlotte's place.

“That sounds wonderful. A bowl of soup and a chicken sandwich, please.” Her stomach gurgled in anticipation.

Henry poked his head into the kitchen, called out her order, then took a rag out to clear a table where a couple of patrons had just left.

Charlotte added a little sugar and some cream to her coffee. She sipped it as she surreptitiously observed the other diners. Three older men sat at a corner table, laughing and chatting. Two women Charlotte recognized, but whose names she couldn't recall, drank coffee and spoke quietly together.

Henry served her soup and sandwich, made sure she had everything she needed, then dashed off again to clear tables. Between his job here at the café and his early-morning duties as paper boy—as well as the occasional assistance with proofreading and printing—he was a busy young man. When did he have time to sleep? Henry rarely spoke of his personal life, and Charlotte wondered if he was on his own or helping his family make ends meet.

When he returned to his post behind the counter, Henry asked, “How's your lunch, Miss Brody?”

“Delicious, thank you. Tell the cook this chicken salad is topnotch. I haven't had anything like it before.”

Henry leaned over the counter a little and winked. “Apples,” he whispered, “and something called curry.”

Charlotte had no idea how a short-order cook in Alaska had come up with the idea of putting apples and curry in chicken salad, but it ruined her forever for the standard variety.

“Any official word on who died in the fire or what caused it?” Henry asked, absently wiping the counter.

It didn't surprise Charlotte that he knew someone had perished; more than likely most of the town already knew. Putting the location and the absence of Lyle Fiske together, one could easily conclude Fiske was either the culprit or the victim.

“Nothing I can say for now.” She daubed her napkin against her lips. Keeping her voice down, she asked, “Why? Have you heard anything?”

Henry was in a good position to glean bits of town gossip and chatter. Patrons of diners and cafés often forgot their servers had ears. “Invisible staff” was also a good source for private society tidbits, but Charlotte had found those employees tended to be more loyal.

Henry glanced down at the rag in his hand, as if a particular dusting of crumbs needed his rapt attention. “Folks reading the paper earlier figured it was Mr. Fiske.”

“What about anyone who might have set the fire or been upset with Mr. Fiske?” she asked. “Does anyone think the arsonist is responsible?” His head came up. It was difficult for Charlotte to read his expression. Surprise at the suggestion it was the arsonist? Had someone mentioned the connection, or did he know something? “Henry?”

“Nobody's said anything more than that, Miss Brody. The Fiskes are good folks. Always nice and left good tips when they came in. Took care of their own. I heard that when their housekeeper, Mrs. Derenov, passed, they gave the family a week's wages as a . . . a what do you call it?”

“Grievance pay,” Charlotte said. “That's very generous of them.” And a rare occurrence in any employment situation. “What about Fiske's employees at the store?”

Henry shrugged. “No complaints near as I can tell. I gotta get Mr. Skinner more coffee.”

He snatched up the pot and hurried toward the table of men.

Charlotte sipped her coffee.
Was
the robbery a random act? Would a thief be so surprised that his reaction was to kill a man? Why not just knock him out? Unless Fiske put up some sort of a fight.

She finished off what was in her cup and paid the bill. Henry barely met her eyes as he took her money. Definitely not his usual smiling, chatty self. Maybe he was tired, having been up late last night, then early this morning to deliver newspapers. The last twelve hours had been taxing on her, and she hadn't gone to work in the wee hours.

“I can get Jacob to cover your deliveries tomorrow,” she offered.

He shook his head, still not meeting her eyes. “No, that's fine, Miss Brody. I'll be there, same as always. Have a nice day.”

He shoved the till drawer closed and disappeared into the kitchen.

Charlotte left a tip beside the till, then left the café. The rain-snow mix continued to fall, adding another layer of slush to the walkways. Clive Wilkes, in the Studebaker that he used as a taxi, rolled by, throwing a wave of icy muck just in front of her.

“Thanks a heap,” she muttered as she shook bits off her skirt.

She resumed walking to the office, mentally prioritizing what needed to be done. Her step faltered when she looked down the walkway. Standing at the door of the
Times
building was a trio of women, arms crossed as they watched her approach. Their fur-collared wool coats and fashionable hats were almost identical, as were their pinched demeanors.

Well, that hadn't taken long at all. Had the Women's Temperance League called an emergency meeting after the paper came out that morning? Were they watching for her arrival at the office?

When she was within polite conversation distance, Charlotte smiled at them. “Good afternoon, ladies. To what do I owe the honor of a visit from the League?”

She knew why they were there, but teasing the women was better than outright calling them fools.

Mrs. Walter Hillman—Charlotte wasn't sure of her given name, as Mrs. Hillman only introduced herself as such—a stout lady in her mid-forties, pressed her lips together. “You know perfectly well why we're here, Miss Brody.”

Flanking her, Mrs. Cron and Mrs. Burgess wore equally displeased expressions.

Charlotte fished the key out of her coat pocket and fit it to the lock, wriggling and jiggling it while she spoke. The damn thing stuck in icy weather. “I'm not about to presume anything, Mrs. Hillman. Why don't you come in and have a cup of tea?”

The lock clicked and she opened the door, gesturing for them to go inside.

None of them moved.

“This isn't a social call,” Mrs. Hillman said. Apparently she was spokeswoman, given her ranking position in the League. “We want a retraction printed.”

Charlotte went inside. She wasn't going to stand on the street for this conversation. Besides, it was too cold. If the ladies wanted to talk, they'd have to follow her in. After a few moments of standing in front of the open door while Charlotte removed her hat and coat, they entered the office, shutting the door behind them.

“And what is it you're retracting?” Charlotte asked.

By the pursing of Mrs. Burgess's lips, Charlotte's little “misunderstanding” wasn't appreciated.

“
We
aren't retracting anything,” Mrs. Cron said, her nasal voice full of irritation. “
You
need to take back that article from this morning's paper.”

Charlotte didn't let her own irritation at the audacity that they demand she do anything of the sort show on her face. “Which one is that?”

Mrs. Hillman took over again. “You know which one, Miss Brody. The article you wrote regarding the Volstead Act making things worse. It's irresponsible for the
Times
to produce such gibberish that will only serve to undermine the fabric of this community.”

“You mean the irresponsible reporting of facts about crime rates going up in dry areas or the gibberish about people poisoning themselves?” The fun of teasing the ladies was quickly waning. “The statistics are clear, Mrs. Hillman. These things are happening right now, and Prohibition isn't even fully enacted yet. Ignorance like yours will only force people to take dangerous risks.”

“I don't appreciate your attitude,” Mrs. Hillman said. “As a woman who champions what's good and right—yes, I know you were active in the suffragette movement back East and you support equality—how can you condone the terrible conditions the consumption of alcohol creates? The financial burden on families? The violence from drunken brawls involving men desperate for a drink?”

Men weren't alone in their desperation, but now was not the time to quibble.

“I condone nothing of the sort, Mrs. Hillman, and said as much in my article.” Heat crawled up Charlotte's neck as she spoke. “It's possible to advocate for social justice and equity while allowing for adults to make personal choices. Complete prohibition won't fix those ills you've mentioned. People will come to realize how restrictive it is, and I doubt the law will be tolerated for very long.”

Mrs. Cron's pointy chin lifted. “The best way to stop a scourge is to eliminate the source.”

Mrs. Hillman and Mrs. Burgess nodded.

Charlotte clenched her hands at her sides, overcoming the desire to rage at the woman's ignorance. “And the best way to get someone to break an overly invasive law is to make them feel like they can't be trusted with their own choices, be it alcohol, deciding who will represent them in Washington, or the use of birth control.”

The women's eyes grew large and round at the mention of such a delicate matter.

“Well, I never,” Mrs. Burgess said, aghast.

Charlotte focused on her. “Perhaps you should. It's very liberating.”

There was a perverse pleasure in seeing each of them pale, but the small voice in the back of her head warned Charlotte she just made three of the most affluent women in Cordova exceedingly uncomfortable. Probably not her smartest move in the last several months.

“Mr. Toliver will hear of this,” Mrs. Hillman said, her voice low and threatening.

Without allowing Charlotte to respond, she about-faced and swept past Mrs. Cron and Mrs. Burgess. They waited half a beat, long enough to give Charlotte a pair of disdainful glares, then followed their leader out the door.

Charlotte slowly relaxed her clenched fists. She'd encountered more than a few of their ilk, well-intended women who were so shortsighted they couldn't see the real world past their turned-up noses. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, attempting to relax. Mr. Toliver would be talking to her, she was sure, but he'd approved her piece and she expected his support.

Still, it was a concern. What if Mrs. Hillman had enough influence over Cordovans to call for a boycott of the paper? What if businesses pulled their advertisements, even for a short time? A drop in revenue could be the thing that got to Toliver.

Would she have a job by the end of the week?

Damnation.

Charlotte turned toward the back of the office, but the sight of Toliver's desk and its blanket of papers just made her want to sweep them all onto the floor. Nothing against him; she just needed to
do
something. She grabbed her coat and hat. A brisk walk might clear her head.

* * *

Charlotte found herself standing in front of Brigit O'Brien's house. Its white clapboards and green shutters made it look like most other homes in Cordova, even down to the window boxes that would have flowers come spring. The house could have fit in any neighborhood in any American city. This one happened to be owned by one of the more successful madams in town. Many Cordovans ignored the inside activities, while others participated eagerly.

It was also the best place for Charlotte to find a sympathetic ear in which to grumble about the visit by Mrs. Hillman and friends.