Borrowing Death (5 page)

She knocked on the door and was startled when it was opened almost immediately. Young Charlie O'Brien, Brigit's son, blocked the entrance with his slight body. He was dressed to go out with a cap, heavy coat, scarf, wool pants, and boots. One hand rested on the jamb, the other held the edge of the door.

“Good afternoon, Charlie. Is Brigit available?”

“Afternoon, Miss Charlotte,” he said, and turned to look toward the parlor. Worry creased his smooth brow. “She's here, but . . .”

The absence of the boy's normally stoic expression concerned her. “Is everything all right?”

He shrugged and shook his head, unsure and unhappy about whatever was going on.

“Let her in, Charlie,” Brigit called from the parlor. “Go to Davey's and play for a bit.”

Charlie gave Charlotte a helpless look, then ran past her, leaving the door open. She watched him trudge through the snow to the road, then disappear around the bend, heading up toward town. She knocked the snow off her boots and went in. The entry to Brigit's house was tastefully decorated, if a little worn around the edges.

Leaving her mucky footwear near the door, Charlotte entered the parlor through the wide arch on the left. Brigit rose from one of the three couches to meet her near the doorway. She wore an orange and blue kimono-like robe with silver thread accents. Tendrils of hair framed her face, having escaped from the loose bun at the nape of her neck. Her dark eyes, usually so full of fire and mischief, were dull and red-rimmed.

“What happened?” Charlotte asked, hurrying toward her friend and gathering Brigit's hands in her own. Not Charlie, obviously, thankfully.

Brigit drew her back to the couch and they sat. On the low table in front of them, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid was beside several cream-colored pages and a matching envelope. Both the pages and the envelope had elegant script covering them.

Brigit picked up the letter. “From a friend in Cincinnati,” she said, her voice rough. “One of the girls I started out with down there—” The words caught in her throat, and her hand gripped Charlotte's hard. “She died.”

Charlotte squeezed back. “Oh, Brigit, I'm so sorry.”

“Camille, Tess, and I were at the same house for a few years. Camille was always laughing and carrying on. Every day was a party.” Brigit smiled sadly at the memory. “Everyone who came in wanted to see Camille. Smart as a whip, pretty, quick-witted.”

“She sounds lovely.”

Brigit nodded, dashing tears away. “We had it all planned. Work the houses rather than the street. So much safer. Save enough to buy our own place or set up a business. A flower shop. Camille loved flowers. But then Tess got this idea into her head to go to Alaska. There was gold still coming out of the hills and things were booming. Tess wanted part of that, and it sounded good to me. Camille decided to stay in Ohio, said she'd follow later.”

Brigit, her sister, Tess, and Tess's husband, Frank Kavanagh, the former mayor of Cordova, had come to Cordova several years before. Their path from the States to the Last Frontier was a story unto itself, and not one many knew the truth of.

Brigit lowered her head, breathing deeply, unable to continue.

Charlotte drew her into a hug. Brigit shook as she cried on Charlotte's shoulder.

“Is there anything I can do?” Charlotte knew there wasn't, but she had to ask.

Brigit lifted her head, sniffling and dabbing her eyes and nose with a handkerchief from within her sleeve. “Find the bastard who killed her?”

Charlotte's breath caught. “She was murdered?”

The life Brigit and her friends lived had its risks. Whether they chose it or were forced into it through circumstances, prostitution was inherently dangerous. But that didn't make a sporting woman's murder any less heinous, as Charlotte had seen firsthand three months earlier.

“Might as well have been.” Brigit's eyes hardened, anger equal to the grief now. “Camille died after going to some back-alley butcher.”

A chill ran up Charlotte's spine. “Back-alley—she died after having . . .”

The word wasn't used in polite company, or any company Charlotte had been in of late. She said it to herself on plenty of occasions, but to speak it out loud? She just couldn't.

“A so-called ‘delicate operation,' yes,” Brigit said. “Victoria, the friend who wrote me, said Camille had gone to a good doctor. Paid top dollar. But it didn't matter. He practically shoved her out of the room right after because he got wind he was about to be raided.”

Charlotte's stomach clenched like a fist. How lucky had she been that the doctor who had performed her own “delicate operation” hadn't been a drunkard or incompetent or caught up in a police raid? A woman with money had a better chance at surviving her decision, but the risk was real no matter what you paid. How many women took that chance and lost every day? Every week? Every year? Hundreds? Thousands? Tens of thousands?

“Charlotte, are you all right? You're pale as a ghost.” Brigit rubbed Charlotte's cold hands between hers. “I shouldn't have said anything about it. I assumed that as a journalist and all you'd be somewhat used to atrocities like this.”

“No, it's not that.” Meeting Brigit's gaze, Charlotte managed a wan smile. “It's not that. I have dealt with some distasteful things, of course, but this . . .”

This was too close, too personal.

Brigit stared at her for several seconds. “You've lost someone to a botched abortion.”

Charlotte shook her head and stared down at their entwined hands. She could trust Brigit with the truth, but the words stuck in her throat. How did you explain feeling guilty for
not
feeling guilt and shame?

In her head, in her heart, she absolutely believed in a woman's right to make her own decisions about having children or not. Charlotte knew she wasn't ready. Not then, and not now.

So why did her stomach ache and her head pound when she thought about what she'd done? The option of living with Richard as his wife had been no option at all. Having the child alone? Out of the question, even if Richard hadn't threatened to besmirch her family. Father would have been livid, Mother would have been appalled. Charlotte would have been responsible for ruining their carefully orchestrated lives.

Instead of a suffering a loveless, resentful marriage, or having a child she didn't want, she'd opted to have an illegal abortion. Breaking that particular law had still put her own reputation and her family's reputation at risk, but the procedure was shorter than a pregnancy and easier to hide. At least on the outside.

“Let me get you something to drink.” Brigit gently extricated her fingers, patted Charlotte's hand, and rose. She crossed to the credenza where she kept the house's liquor supply locked up, in defiance of Alaska's dry laws.

A voice came from the stairs behind Charlotte. “I-is everything all r-right?”

Charlotte looked up, knowing it was Della from her soft tone and stutter even before seeing the girl. Della stood halfway up the stairs, wearing a red dressing gown. Her face was clean of makeup, her black hair loose about her shoulders, and her blue eyes full of worry.

“It's fine, Della,” Brigit poured a tumbler of whiskey and came back to Charlotte, bottle in hand. “Go finish getting ready, please, and tell Lizzie to wear the dark blue dress. Mr. Copper sent a message he'd be visiting and prefers that color on her.”

There was no “Mr. Copper” in Cordova, of course, but pseudonyms told the girls which preferred customers to expect. Brigit was usually tight-lipped about who came to her house, be he councilman or cannery man.

Della glanced between the two of them, then went back upstairs.

“Here,” Brigit said to Charlotte, giving her the glass and setting the bottle on the table. “You look like you could use this.”

Charlotte held the tumbler with both hands. How long had it been since she'd had a drink? Not since she and Richard had started seeing each other. Not since the days following her procedure, when a dram or two or three helped her sleep without nightmares.

God, the nightmares. Endless crying coming from all around her. Images of herself pounding on doors along a dark and rainy city street while the feeling that something black and wicked was making its way toward her. Something that would eat her whole.

Her reasons for having the abortion were selfish. Her shame was selfish. She publicly called for equality and rights, yet she couldn't bring herself to admit her own decision. Society would never look at her the same if they knew what she'd done.

Charlotte knew she was a hypocrite. That was what haunted her.

“Want to tell me about it?” Brigit asked gently, her dark eyes searching Charlotte's face.

“It's just that—” Charlotte's voice broke, and she took a drink. The whiskey burned down her throat, then up into her sinuses. It hit her stomach. Heat spread through her gut. Her eyes watered, and she coughed as she peered into the glass. Half gone. How had that happened?

“We can go into my office,” Brigit offered. “No one will bother us in there.”

Della's interruption was both a blessing and a misfortune. She would have told Brigit everything, but now . . . Now, she just couldn't bring herself to say it. Charlotte had practically perfected the façade she showed the outside world. She wasn't ready to reveal her truth to Brigit. Telling Michael had been difficult enough.

She swallowed another mouthful of her whiskey and blew out a cooling breath. “No. Another time, perhaps. Today, we'll celebrate Camille.”

Concern clear on her face, Brigit nodded, then held out her tumbler. “Death ends a life, but not a friendship.”

She touched the side of her glass to Charlotte's and both drank. The alcohol went down much more smoothly this time.

Brigit smiled sadly. She finished her drink and poured them each another two fingers.

“To friends past and present,” Charlotte said.

“To friends.”

They drank again to the delicate ringing of glass.

M
iserable
was the only word to describe the weather two evenings after Lyle Fiske's death. Shivering, Charlotte tugged her collar up as the steamship
North Star
arrived in port, its whistle sounding in the icy air. The snow and rain mix chilled to the bone. Even the extra pair of wool socks she wore wasn't quite enough.

The
North Star
sidled up to the lighted dock and blew a final burst of exhaust, its engines roaring, then settling into a low rumble that Charlotte felt in the soles of her boots. The ship had the capacity to carry a couple of hundred passengers, but according to the published list only half that were aboard. The most important one, in her reckoning, was the woman whose life was about to change dramatically.

“What are you doing here?” James growled low in her ear so the other dozen or so people waiting on the dock wouldn't hear.

Charlotte didn't bother turning around. Instead, she watched the dock men secure thick lines to the massive posts. “I really should do a piece on them,” she said offhandedly. “These men work in some wretched conditions.”

“You know that's not what I'm asking. I told you I didn't want you here.”

Now Charlotte faced him, anger hot in her chest. He looked as mad as she felt. “This is a free territory, deputy. You have no right to tell me any such thing, and you can't order me away from a public place when I've done nothing wrong. Did you honestly think I'd go against your wishes and pelt poor Caroline with questions? What sort of person do you think I am?”

His scowl softened into contrition. “I'm sorry. You're right. I should have trusted you'd keep your word.” He rubbed a gloved hand over his beard and watched the gangplank being lowered to the dock. “I have to go. Everyone is being kept on board until I get Mrs. Fiske. I want a clear path to the car so we can get her home right away.” James met her gaze again. “I am sorry, Charlotte.”

“That's twice in several days that you've insulted my integrity,” she said.

“Reckon I owe you something for that. Dinner tomorrow?”

She blinked at him. After all that, he was asking her to dinner? She should have said no. Instead she heard herself say, “All right.”

There was nothing wrong with friends having dinner, especially when one was asking as a way of apology for boorish behavior. It would be rude to turn him down. Wouldn't it?

He touched the brim of his hat, and without another word jogged up the gangplank.

Charlotte shook off the funny little feeling she had in her gut and pulled her notebook out of her coat pocket. Protecting the pages from the snow as best she could, she took notes on the crowd and atmosphere while everyone waited for James to conduct the ugly business of informing Caroline Fiske of her loss and escort her to the waiting car.

The steamship company's Cordova agent stood near the rear door of a Model T, anxiety etched on his thin face beneath the dock's floodlights. His collar was turned up and his bowler dripped. What was his name? She'd have to remember to get it for the article. People usually liked seeing their names in print, even under less than positive circumstances.

It was a cold twenty minutes, according to her pendant watch, until James and Caroline appeared at the top of the gangplank. The glare of the dock lights washed out the normal glow of Caroline's fair skin. A sable hat and matching long coat enveloped her, as if they were too large for her frame. She wasn't a tiny woman, but she seemed fragile now. The news James had to deliver would certainly have made anyone shrink in on themselves.

James took Caroline's arm as they descended. The dozen or so people waiting at the dock fell into respectful silence. The only sounds were the low rumble of the resting steamer's engine and the lap of waves against the piling. Even the dock workers paused in their duties, sensing something was amiss. James looked straight ahead at the car waiting for them, one arm now around Caroline's shoulder, the other supporting her elbow.

As they passed, Charlotte noticed tear streaks through Caroline's makeup and the smudged mascara. No one said a word. The steamship company agent opened the rear door of the car. Inside, an older woman peered out at the approaching pair, her face lined with anxiety. Charlotte assumed she was the housekeeper or a friend James had mentioned calling upon to help tend Caroline.

Caroline slid onto the backseat. Charlotte saw the older woman's lips move, but couldn't hear what she was saying. All she caught was Caroline's expression crumbling into tearful sorrow.

Without a glance or word to anyone, James closed the door and climbed into the front passenger seat. The agent hurried around to the driver's seat. The black car had been left running, and smoothly eased forward toward the road.

The crowd started talking at once. Most sympathized with the new widow, and wondered who could have done such a thing to Mr. Fiske. No one mentioned the robbery, but several speculated that the arsonist had gone too far.

The ship's passengers began disembarking, making their way to waiting friends and family with questions about the delay.

Charlotte pocketed her notebook and pencil and withdrew a flashlight from her coat. The snow had abated for the moment, at least, so the walk back to the office wouldn't be intolerable. She could have hired one of the two waiting taxis, but wanted some quiet time to get her thoughts in order. Her article would touch on Caroline's emotional state, without disrespecting the woman.

A car roared up behind her, its headlights throwing shadows. Charlotte moved as far to the side of the road as she could, but the taxi splashed slush onto her boots anyway.

“Thanks another heap, Clyde,” she muttered. He seemed to have a knack for finding her.

A second vehicle approached from the same direction, but rather than pass her it slowed.

“Charlotte, is that you?”

Charlotte turned as the car stopped. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the headlights. Brigit's rosy-cheeked face peered out from the rear window. “It's me. What are you doing out here?”

“Not getting wet.” Brigit opened the door. “Get in here before you catch your death.”

Realizing she'd lost the feeling in her toes, Charlotte climbed in. The backseat of the Ford was worn in places, but clean. Brigit sat in the middle of the bench seat. A younger woman in a knee-length dark green coat sat near the other door. She was no more than twenty, with short curly blond hair beneath her cloche.

The driver, a man Charlotte knew as Brigit's handyman and muscle when things at the house became a bit too boisterous, nodded to her. “Miss Brody. Where can we take you?”

“To the
Times
office please, Mr. Larsen.”

Their conversations never went beyond a few words. He focused on the road again and moved forward when she was settled.

“Charlotte, this is Edie,” Brigit said. “She's come up from Juneau. Edie, this is my friend Charlotte. She's with the paper.”

Brigit rarely referred to her girls by last name, and she afforded Charlotte an appreciated familiarity by introducing her by her given name. “Nice to meet you, Edie.”

“Likewise.” She gave Charlotte's sogginess unabashed perusal. “Ain't such a good night to be walkin'.”

Charlotte and Brigit exchanged amused glances. If Edie was one of Brigit's new girls—and Charlotte remembered her saying she was looking for fresh faces—her forthright manner would serve her well in Cordova.

Now that Brigit had her blonde, maybe she'd stop teasing Charlotte about coming to work for her. Though Charlotte would miss their little personal joke.

“No, it's not,” Charlotte said. “I appreciate you stopping.”

“I thought I saw you on the dock,” Brigit said, “but everyone is covered head to toe. Were you there to talk to Caroline Fiske?”

“Not talk to her.” Charlotte didn't want to rehash the argument with James here. “Just making observations. Did you know Mr. Fiske?”

Brigit's mouth quirked into a crooked smile. “Do you mean professionally? He stopped by now and again.”

“How about Caroline?”

“No, she never came to the house,” Brigit said with a wink. She put on a show of jocularity and cheer, but Charlotte could still see the pain of the loss of her friend in the shadows beneath her eyes. “I saw her in a shop or on the street now and again, but we weren't familiar.”

“Just a nice, upstanding couple who've met with tragedy.” It was a story Charlotte had heard all too often.

“I never said they were upstanding.”

Charlotte stared at her friend, a woman who knew more than a few secrets about Cordova's citizens. “What do you mean?”

Brigit shook her head. “Not here.”

The car stopped on Main Street in front of the
Times
office. Mr. Larsen got out and came around to the rear door.

“Come by for lunch tomorrow,” Brigit said, and delivered a quick peck to Charlotte's cheek.

“I will. Thanks for the ride.” Charlotte smiled at Edie. “Good night.”

The young woman responded with a halfhearted smile, her eyes on her employer. Was she curious about the Fiskes or Brigit? Probably both.

Charlotte stepped out of the car, thanked Mr. Larsen, and went to the office door. She waved as the vehicle pulled away.

Brigit would have trusted Mr. Larsen with whatever she knew, but Edie was of untested reliability. Discretion had kept Brigit in business; she wouldn't risk that by talking in front of the new girl. But did Brigit know something pertinent to the murder of Lyle Fiske?

* * *

Mr. Toliver strolled into the office a couple of hours after Charlotte had returned from the steamship dock. His fur hat and coat on his bulky figure made him look like a bear that had woken too soon from hibernation.

Flicking snow off his coat, he grinned at Charlotte. “How's she running, Miss Brody?”

His typical greeting encompassed both the Linotype and herself.

Charlotte rose from the chair behind the desk where she'd been working. “Going well. I just finished the bit on Caroline Fiske's return this evening.”

He shook his head sadly as he hung up his things and changed out of his boots. “That poor woman.”

Toliver straightened his tie and smoothed down his hair. He made sure his vest, jacket, and trousers were neat before striding over to her. Out from under the bulk of his furs, he was graceful and light on his feet for a large man. At every dance Charlotte had attended where he was present, ladies practically stood in line for a chance to be whisked across the floor by the newsman. There were eligible bachelors aplenty in Cordova, but few could fox-trot as finely as Andrew Toliver.

“She was quite shaken, as expected,” Charlotte said, stepping aside and allowing Toliver to take his seat. “But I kept the piece short and to the point. No sense in getting overly emotional or gruesome.”

“Good, good.” He picked up papers, perusing them as he sat. “Speaking of emotional . . .”

He quirked a graying eyebrow at her.

Great. What had Mrs. Hillman said to him?

“I take it you spoke to the president of the Temperance League?”

“More like she spoke
at
me,” he said, rolling his eyes. Charlotte smiled, but knew he had brought up Mrs. Hillman for one reason. “She had definite ideas about how things should be.”

Her smile tightened, and she felt flushed with irritation as she recalled the conversation with the women. “And no qualms about telling others their opinions are wrong.”

Toliver nodded. “True, but feuding with her or the Women's Temperance League is not in our best interest.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “She wanted me to retract my opinion piece. I said no.”

“I'm pretty sure you said more than that. I believe you called her ignorant?”

Charlotte felt the heat of that truth, but Toliver was wearing a wry grin while he said it. “And shortsighted, but only to myself after they were gone.”

Toliver stared at her, wide-eyed, then chuckled as he shook his head. Maybe he wasn't terribly angry with her. “I can only imagine the look on her face.”

“I thought Mrs. Cron and Mrs. Burgess were going to die of the vapors right over there.” She gestured toward the doorway. “I guess I was a tad unprofessional.”

Toliver looked serious now. “She wants me to fire you, you know.”

That didn't surprise her in the least. “I'd expected her to call for a public flogging or lock me in the stocks in the town square.”

“I'm sure it crossed her mind. If we had a town square, and stocks, she's the sort of woman who'd call for their use on a regular basis.” He leaned back in the chair, thumbs hooked inside the pockets of his vest. “I reminded her this was a fair and balanced newspaper, and we'd be happy to run something she and the ladies penned.”

“And?”

He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew several pieces of paper folded lengthwise. He held them out to her. “We'll include this in tomorrow's edition.”

Charlotte took them and read. There was nothing within the essay she hadn't heard countless times before from Temperance Leagues from New York to California. The evils of alcohol, the deterioration of American society, particularly the looseness of morals and mores. That last bit, Charlotte was sure, was aimed at her own reference to using birth control. And of course there was the less-than-subtle potshots at anyone who thought differently.

The position Mrs. Hillman and the others took made her blood boil, but the First Amendment was near and dear to Charlotte. She'd make sure the article was typed just as it was written.