Borrowing Death (7 page)

“Do you think the arsonist is responsible?” Charlotte was starting to have her doubts. This event was well beyond the arsonist's typical behavior.

“I'm not ruling anything out just yet,” James said. “It's possible our firebug broke in to steal some solvent and got caught by Fiske.”

They were back in the shared entry. James tucked the file under his arm and secured the inner door.

“What about Mrs. Fiske?” she asked.

James's head came up, his eyebrows arched. “As a suspect? How? And why? She was on a ship, two days from port.”

“But her lover probably wasn't.”

His eyes narrowed. “Lover?”

Was he unaware of the Fiskes' open relationship, or feeling out what Charlotte knew?

“I understand Caroline was seeing someone. Whom Lyle knew. Is it possible Lyle confronted him, or vice versa?”

Lovers' quarrels and triangles that led to murder seemed to be the thing of dime-store novels, but they happened. How many men and women were killed “in the heat of passion” by their spouses or lovers or rivals?

“Of course it's possible. A man can only take being a cuckold for so long.” James practically spat the words out, angry. Something had touched a nerve. “But unless someone has a name to go with this supposition, there's not much I can do.”

“Caroline wouldn't be keen on giving up that information.”

“Not likely.” James gestured toward the outer door, giving her an expectant look when she didn't move. “What?”

Charlotte considered a possible scenario. “Lyle calls the lover to the store to tell him to stop seeing his wife. Things get heated, out of control, and the other man grabs the knife in rage.” She pantomimed snatching the hunting knife out of the display behind the counter. “And in his anger—”

She thrust the imaginary knife upward, hitting James just under the sternum with her fist.

He wrapped his large hand gently around her wrist. “Or the lover goes to Fiske to demand he divorce Caroline. Lyle refuses. Fight. Stab.”

He thumped her fist against the same spot on his chest.

“Or,” Charlotte said, easing her hand from his grip and lowering it, “there was another reason the killer wanted Lyle dead.”

“Other than an interrupted robbery.”

“Yes. Keeping a business going is difficult, especially in a small, remote town. What if Fiske's business dealings weren't so legitimate?”

“I'd be more surprised if they were completely legitimate.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing specific.” That was true enough. Brigit had been willing to hint, not divulge. Charlotte was jumping to an awfully big conclusion without any detail. “But it's worth considering, yes?”

“Yes,” he said. “I'll see what I can dig up. Probably need to talk to Caroline again.”

Charlotte headed toward the outer door.

“We're still having dinner tonight, aren't we?” James asked.

She stopped, her heart fluttering. She'd forgotten about his invitation.

It's just dinner
.

“Of course,” she said. “Meet you at The Wild Rose at six.”

Charlotte left the federal building, fully intent on getting back to the
Times
office to work, but her eye was drawn toward the harbor road. Specifically to Fiske's. She couldn't quite see the building from Main Street, but she could swear she smelled the burnt wood and acrid chemical bite of the air. Bypassing the office, she made her way to the devastated store.

The scorched siding around the open door and broken windows reminded her of a night three months ago. She shivered, recalling the fire meant to scare her, if not kill her. Charlotte had ignored the note she'd received about involving herself in Darcy Dugan's murder, but the fire made it clear she'd been getting too close to the truth. Hopefully nothing like that would happen again. Touching a fingertip to the small scar under her left eye, Charlotte shook off the memory and went through the gaping door.

Even days later, a residual stench hung in the air, though the worst of the offensive aroma from the fire seemed to have dissipated. Watery light penetrated the gaps in the building, leaving deep shadows between the head-high shelves that hadn't completely succumbed to flames or the firefighters' drenching. Tools, boxes, and small appliances littered the floor. Glass crunched under her boots. The deeper she went, the more dank and oppressive the air became.

“I should have brought my flashlight,” she muttered aloud. She'd needed to change the batteries and forgot to put it back in her coat pocket. Though she wasn't quite sure what she was looking for. A clue as to who killed Lyle, but what did she expect to find in these ruins?

The charred service counter across the rear of the room separated the store from what she figured was Fiske's office. The blackened door was open and a light flickered within the back room.

“Damnation!” A woman's voice, coming from the office.

Charlotte hurried behind the scorched counter, past the equally blackened gilded till. She peeked around the doorjamb.

In a room dimly illuminated by wintery light coming through the empty narrow windows, Caroline Fiske, in widow's black, knelt in front of a squat safe, her profile to Charlotte. A balled-up coat cushioned her knees. The rear of the office had escaped the worst of the fire damage. The safe sat beside Fiske's sodden but mostly intact wood desk.

Caroline's head was bowed, her eyes closed, and a pinched expression on her face. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Staring hard at the combination lock, she turned the dial with care while holding a flashlight in the other hand. Right. Left. Right. She tried the handle. It didn't budge.

Caroline slapped her palm against the safe and let out a frustrated growl.

“Mrs. Fiske?” Charlotte had no reason to hide from the widow, and her curiosity bade her to question the woman.

Caroline startled and swung the light toward her. “Who's that?” Charlotte ducked her head slightly to keep the light from her eyes. Caroline lowered the beam. “Oh, Miss Brody. What are you doing here?”

“My apologies. I was going to do a follow-up article about the fire, and the possible connection to the arsonist, when I saw your light. I'm so sorry about your husband.”

Caroline rose, dusting off her skirt. “Thank you.”

Dark smudges of sleeplessness marred the pale skin beneath her brown eyes. Despite her foray into the sooty remains of the store, Caroline's face was otherwise clean and clear, and her black hair remained in its neat bun.

“Is there something I might help you with?” Charlotte glanced between Caroline and the safe.

The woman closed her eyes, collecting herself. Her shoulders stiffened, and her back straightened. With an almost regal bearing, she focused on Charlotte again. “I was looking for insurance papers.”

Charlotte felt a kick of adrenaline. Insurance? Money was as strong a motivator as love. Perhaps stronger for some people.

“I'm sure that sounds perfectly horrible,” Caroline said, pain deepening lines along her mouth and between her eyes. “I've been wandering around the house most of the day feeling out of sorts and useless, and figured at the very least I could look into taking care of the store.”

It hadn't bothered her that she was in the place where her husband had been robbed and murdered? Had she no feelings for the man?

“That's understandable,” Charlotte said despite the thoughts she had. “But you don't know the combination?”

“I do, or thought I did.” Caroline glanced at the safe. “The numbers seem to have left my head. I was sure it was—Oh!”

She quickly knelt down again and spun the dial. Right. Left. Right. This time, when she pushed down on the handle, it clicked.

Charlotte made her way over some debris to stand behind the woman. Had the safe been emptied like the till?

Caroline pulled the heavy door open. She shined her light inside. Papers, folders, several stacks of federal reserve notes, a canvas coin sack. All lay neatly on the shelves, undisturbed.

So much for robbery.

Caroline reached in, shoving aside the papers and cash. A small whimper escaped her. “It's gone. Where did he put it?”

C
aroline jumped to her feet, nearly knocking Charlotte over. She ran to the desk and yanked open drawers. “Where is it? Where'd you put it, Lyle?”

Anxiety raised her voice half an octave. A drawer crashed to the floor. She gave the mess a cursory search, then pulled out another when she didn't find whatever she was looking for. The flashlight's beam bobbed in time with her frantic movement.

“What are you looking for, Caroline?” Charlotte came around the desk, wary of flying papers, pen nibs, and ink pots.

“A black metal box with a gold border around the lid.” Caroline straightened from a crouch, turning this way and that as she swept the room with the light. “It's gone. He kept it in the safe, and now it's gone.”

Charlotte scanned the room as well, though she had no sense she'd actually find the missing box. “Would Lyle have brought it home? Did you look there?”

Caroline shook her head. “No. No, he kept everything here. This is the most secure place.” She turned to a set of shelves behind the desk and began pulling out waterlogged catalogues and papers, scattering them across the floor with wet thuds. “Where could it be?”

“Could someone have taken it?” If the box contained papers important enough for Caroline to be in a panic over it, perhaps the thief had wanted it as well.

Caroline stopped emptying the shelf and her head snapped up. Her dark eyes were wide, the whites visible in the low light. Did she have an idea who might have the box?

“Hey! Who's in there?” a gruff voice called from the other room. Heavy footsteps pounded closer. “If any of you kids—Oh.” A flashlight beam cut across Charlotte. She raised a hand to block the light from her eyes. “Miss Brody. What are you doing here?”

Fire chief Donald Parker stood in the doorway. Filled it, more accurately. He was a tall, barrel-shaped man. His hardened-leather chief's hat almost touched the top of the frame.

Before Charlotte could say anything, Caroline stood up, putting herself in his light.

“I couldn't help myself, Donald.” She gave Charlotte an unreadable look. “I came to find some papers, but Lyle must have moved them.”

The complete opposite of what she'd told Charlotte, that Lyle would never have moved them. That's what Caroline's glance had indicated, a request that Charlotte go along with what she'd told Parker. What sort of game was Caroline Fiske playing?

“Mrs. Fiske. Didn't see you there, ma'am. It's too dangerous for you to be poking around in here.” Parker's walrus mustache bristled. “Fire and water damage the structural integrity. The ceiling could collapse and you'd be hurt, or worse.” He shined the light on Charlotte again. “And what about you, Miss Brody?”

“Doing a little investigative journalism, is all.”

Chief Parker harrumphed and frowned, telling her exactly how he felt about that. “Nothing to investigate as far as you're concerned. Eddington and I will let you know what we find. I think you ladies should leave. If you want to search the premises again, Mrs. Fiske, please come see me first. I want someone with you, as a precaution.”

Caroline casually picked up her coat and walked over to the safe. She closed and locked it. “Thank you, Chief. I'll send Joe and Randall, or Ben, to check in with you before they get this safe and bring it to the house.”

Joe Fisher and Randall Towers were the Fiske Hardware employees. According to James's questioning, both men had gotten on well with Lyle and had alibis for the night. Who was Ben?

As Caroline walked toward the door, with Charlotte following, she visually swept the room again, as if hoping the box would miraculously appear. When it didn't, she sighed, her shoulders sagging.

Parker led the way back to the safety of the street. They all blinked as their eyes adjusted to the relatively bright light.

“Charlotte, what are you doing here?” James asked striding toward them, the displeasure clear on his face. His expression changed to sympathetic confusion when he saw Caroline. “Mrs. Fiske. I recommended you not come here.”

He wanted to save her the heartache of seeing where her husband died
. Once again, Charlotte was impressed by the sensitivity of the outwardly gruff deputy.

“I know, deputy,” Caroline said, “but I was beside myself and unable to just sit there at the house. I decided to look for some important business papers, to keep my mind occupied. Lyle kept them in a box in the safe, but the box isn't there. Perhaps he moved it, or the thief you mentioned took it.”

But why take the box and not the money?
Charlotte wondered. It made no sense.

“It's been such an ordeal,” Caroline continued. Tears welled but didn't fall. “I just can't think straight. I should go home.”

“Let me walk with you,” Charlotte said. Maybe she could carefully question Caroline.

“No, that's all right.” Caroline smiled wanly. “I'd prefer to be alone for now.”

Damn.

Caroline bade them good-bye. She picked her way through the snowy street up toward the main road. Rather than continue straight, to her home, Caroline turned onto Main Street, away from her house.

“Now, Charlotte—” James began.

“She's hiding something.”

James and the chief exchanged startled glances.

“In the office,” Charlotte said, “she was frantic, searching for the black box, saying Lyle kept it in that safe and that safe only. Inside the safe is several hundred dollars in federal reserve notes. Why would a thief take the box and not the money?”

James focused on the dark door, eyes narrowed as he thought it through. “Maybe Fiske had the box out already. The thief takes it and cleans out the till. Somewhere in there, Fiske comes along and gets himself killed.”

“Then the thief sets fire to cover his tracks,” the chief said. He shook his head. “I'll let you work out the robbery and murder angle, Eddington. I'm going back inside to confirm how this damn fire got started.”

“I'll be in as soon as I finish with Miss Brody,” James said. The chief grunted, flicked on his flashlight, and headed back into the burned-out store. James locked his gaze on her again. “The question is, which came first? Did the thief go after the money, the box, or Lyle?”

“I don't think it's all about the money,” Charlotte said. “There's something about that box and whatever's in it. But how would he open the safe?”

“If the box wasn't already out, maybe he forced Lyle to open it.” The deputy's lips pressed together. “Or he had the combination.”

“From Lyle or from Caroline,” she said. James frowned at her suggestion. “Joe or Randall might have had the combination. Caroline knows it. She could have given the alleged thief the combination.”

James shook his head. “Then why is she so panicked about the box? If she knew someone was going to get into the safe, she'd realize who else could have taken it.”

“We don't know how much money was in the safe to begin with,” Charlotte said. “He may have been told to take the money, to make it look like a robbery, but discovered something better inside the box. If she planned it, Caroline wouldn't want the box ‘found' until after she returned. She wouldn't have needed to come here today.”

“If her hired thief was tasked with getting it, she could have said it was in their home all the time and no one would dispute it. But you said she was shocked that the box wasn't in the safe, maybe on the verge of panic.” James looked skeptical. “That's a lot of trouble to go through to avoid divorce.”

Charlotte agreed, but she also knew people did strange things when it came to personal relationships, and ending them. “As much as I like Caroline, if she's cheating on her husband—with or without his acceptance—she might be tired of juggling two lives. Perhaps she wanted Lyle out of the way permanently, so she could have the store, her social status intact, and still keep her relationship with her lover.”

James stared at her for several moments. “It would take a helluva cold woman to pull off something like that.”

They both knew that a woman was as likely as any man to be brutal and coldhearted, despite outward appearances of gentility.

The idea gave Charlotte an uncomfortable feeling, like there was an itch in the middle of her back she couldn't reach. She didn't
want
to think of Caroline as an engineer of murder, but that didn't preclude the new widow from suspicion.

James removed his hat and raked his fingers through his hair. He hadn't shaved in several days. The scruff on his face and his mussed hair made him look dog-weary. “If we could figure out who he is, we might get somewhere.”

Charlotte felt the thrill of his saying “we” when it came to the case. That he did so without thinking made her question his earlier protests of her involvement, and that made her smile.

“I'll talk to the housekeeper again,” James said. “They're usually privy to family secrets.”

“Mrs. Munson's only been there a month,” Charlotte reminded him.

“A lot can happen in a month.”

“What if she doesn't know or won't reveal anything about the Fiskes' private lives?”

“I'll figure something out.” He scowled at her even before Charlotte opened her mouth to make a suggestion. “No. You may not talk to her or Caroline or anyone else.”

Charlotte's joy at his earlier referral to their working together withered. “I just want to help.”

“The last time you helped, you nearly got killed.” His expression softened. “I won't have you put yourself in danger again, Charlotte.”

“I don't think asking the housekeeper a few questions will lead to anything dangerous,” she said. “Besides, last time was an unusually brutal case. I don't think this one is like that.”

Charlotte forced the memory of Darcy Dugan's bloody and broken body out of her head.

He crossed his arms. “Playing psychologist, are you?”

“Just my observations of human nature.” A shiver ran through her, though from the cold or from considering all she'd seen of human nature, she couldn't tell. “I'm going to head to the office to work and warm up. Will you tell me anything you find at dinner?”

“Not the conversation I was hoping for,” he said with an overdramatic sigh.

She grinned. He had a subtle sense of humor that was always a delight to see come forward. “Oh? What were you hoping to talk about?”

James shrugged. “Opera. Literature. World politics. The usual fodder of Cordova existence.”

She laughed and patted his arm. “I'll be sure to brush up.”

He caught her hand before she moved it away. Gently tugging her closer, he bent down and kissed her on the cheek. His lips were warm against her chilled skin.

“See you later,” he said, then headed into the burnt building.

With a flurry of mixed emotions, Charlotte hurried toward the Fiske home.

* * *

The Fiskes lived on a quiet side road three streets up—literally, as the road was at a steep incline—from the hardware store. The house, gray with dark blue trim, looked out over the town, with a view of the harbor and clam canneries.

Charlotte stopped and caught her breath before the black-ribbon-draped door. The walk up hill wouldn't have been too bad on a dry road, but the addition of slush and ice had been more tiring than usual. Careful not to disturb the ribbon, she knocked. When no one responded to her second knock, Charlotte made her way around to the side of the house. As she approached the open gate leading to the side yard, she heard the thump of an axe.

A broad-shouldered man took another swing at a wedge of wood on a round section of a tree set on end. His back to Charlotte, his brown coat and hat were speckled with water spots; his canvas trousers were tucked into knee-high leather boots.

He swung, swift and sure. The blade cleaved the wedge in two with a crack.

As he levered the axe out, Charlotte cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”

The man whipped around, axe raised. The cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth jumped. “Christ, woman, don't sneak up on a man like that.”

He appeared to be in his early twenties, his features set in a frown and black brows furrowed over almost black eyes. The complexion of his skin suggested Native blood.

Charlotte hadn't thought she was sneaking, but she wasn't about to argue with a man holding an axe. “I'm sorry. I'm looking for Mrs. Fiske.”

She was quite sure Caroline wasn't home. Charlotte preferred not to lie so blatantly, but talking to the Fiskes' people while Caroline was away from the house might allow them to relax enough to divulge something. As long as James didn't find out. Defying him wasn't her favorite thing to do, but sometimes he made the most irrational requests.

The man eyed her, smoke clouding his around his face. “Mrs. Fiske left a while ago. Mrs. Munson's inside.”

“I knocked, but I guess Mrs. Munson didn't hear me.” Charlotte took a step into the yard. “Are you a friend of the Fiskes?”

Maybe he was helping the family now that Lyle was gone.

The man snorted a laugh. He swung the axe with one hand, embedding the blade near the edge of the round of wood he'd been using as a cutting platform. “Not hardly. I'm what you'd call a handyman.”

“Oh, so you don't work at the store, Mr.?”

“Derenov. Ben Derenov. No, I don't. No one does now, do they?” He lifted a half-round of wood from a mound of others and set it on the cutting surface.