Borrowing Death (8 page)

“No, I guess they don't.” Charlotte watched him for a few moments, the fluid motion of his swing and the thud of the contact between metal and wood almost mesmerizing. Swish. Thunk. Swish. Thunk. “Are you from around here, Mr. Derenov? You seem familiar.”

Another lie. Good thing she wasn't required to go to confession on Sundays.

“Grew up here.” Swish. Thunk. “But I've been down south for the last few years.” He stopped and turned to her. “My mother worked for the Fiskes until she died a few months back.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.” Two deaths surrounding the Fiskes in the span of months. How sad.

Derenov shrugged. Not a man to dwell on emotions, Charlotte figured. “Thanks. You should try up front again. See if Mrs. Munson can help you.”

“I will. Thank you, Mr. Derenov.”

The swish and thud of the axe were his only response.

Charlotte returned to the front door and knocked louder than before. Within a few moments, a short, roundish woman of fifty or so wearing a navy blue wool dress answered.

“Yes?”

“Good afternoon. My name's Charlotte Brody. I've come to pay my respects to Mrs. Fiske. If she's taking visitors, that is.” Charlotte dug one of her cards out of her coat pocket and handed it to the woman. One of the corners was bent, but otherwise it was presentable, with her name in flowing script.

Mrs. Munson studied the simple card, her lips pressed together. “The missus isn't in just now, but I'll tell her you called.”

“Thank you. Oh, could I write something the back of the card, please?”

“Of course. Come in.” Mrs. Munson stepped aside and gestured for Charlotte to enter the house. “Let me find you a pen.” She checked the drawer of an occasional table near the door. Not finding what she was looking for, she headed into the parlor to the right.

Charlotte didn't offer to use her own pencil, which she kept in her other pocket with her notebook. A few moments alone allowed her to take in the Fiske home. Narrow stairs led to the upper floor. The wall along the stairs was lined with framed photographic portraits of men, women, children, and small groups. To the right, the parlor, where Mrs. Munson searched the drawers of a rolltop desk. The room to the left was closed off with sliding pocket doors. The house was eerily silent and smelled of wood oil and dampness.

“We'll have church services tomorrow at noon,” the housekeeper said when she returned to the entry hall. She handed Charlotte a fountain pen. “There will be a visitation here between two and four. No casket, of course. A private burial will be in a few days.”

Considering the condition of the body, Charlotte wasn't surprised Caroline chose to not have a viewing at the funeral parlor.

“Thank you.” She jotted the
Times
office telephone number on the back of the card and left it and the pen on the table so the ink could dry. “Will the church service be private? I work for Mr. Toliver at the paper and can make sure the announcement is in the morning edition.”

Mrs. Munson's lips pressed together again. Because Charlotte was a reporter? “I believe a notice was delivered to your office this morning. It won't be private, considering the Fiskes' standing in the community, but we expect more attendance at the visitation here.”

“Of course,” Charlotte said. “Thank you very much. Tell Mrs. Fiske I'm sorry to have missed her, and I'll be sure to come by tomorrow.”

She left the house and, as she walked down the slick street, Charlotte wondered if Caroline Fiske had hurried off to deliver the notice of her husband's service herself after searching the safe, or if she'd gone elsewhere. Charlotte's money was on elsewhere, since she could have handed Charlotte any notice she wanted printed. But where had Caroline been going? Or perhaps the better question was, who had she been in such a hurry to see?

* * *

An envelope had been pushed into the message box slot attached to the door of the
Times
office. When Mr. Toliver was the only person running the paper, he relied on that method to have Cordova residents inform him of happenings about town. Charlotte checked the box daily. Now, a neatly written note signed by Caroline Fiske was in her hand, detailing the services and visitation Mrs. Munson had mentioned.

The cuckoo clock reminded her that she had a job to tend, and Charlotte quickly removed her outerwear and boots.

While she worked on rekindling the fire in the stove, she considered the Fiske murder. Both the thief and Fiske must have been inside at eight o'clock. Even a loud argument or fight would have been enclosed in the building. The businesses closer to Fiske's might have heard something, if it was loud enough, but it was likely no one was about at that hour.

James had just been on the street, though presumably coming from town, nowhere near the hardware store. If he had passed it by and suspected anything, he would have stopped.

Once she got the fire going again, Charlotte went to the desk. Mr. Toliver had left instructions for particular articles he wished to have included in the next edition. The teletype hadn't been too busy, or the line was down, limiting the number of news items that had come in for her to transcribe. Charlotte would have to gather a few more stories to fill out the rest of the pages. A call back East was in order.

She took up the telephone, lifted the earpiece, and flicked the bracket.

“Operator. How may I direct your call?”

Charlotte couldn't help but smile at the formality in the voice. “Hello, Mrs. Jensen. This is Charlotte Brody at the
Times
. Could you connect me to Miss Cameron at
Modern Woman Review
magazine in Albany, New York?”

It would be early evening back home, but Kit was known to be at the office until quite late. Since she'd been taken on by Mr. Toliver, Charlotte called Kit if the
Times
's pages were looking sparse and for any news items that might not have been sent via teletype. The twice-monthly conversations also gave them a chance to catch up. Charlotte felt only a little twinge of guilt about chatting with her friend on the
Times
's dime.

“I have that number here, Miss Brody.”

Mrs. Jensen kept meticulous records, noting names, numbers and times. Charlotte used to suspect the operator secretly listened in on calls, but after meeting the woman once she knew that was not the case. Mrs. Jensen was the epitome of professionalism and integrity. The night operator, however, was a different story.

“I'll put your call in right away and ring you when it goes through.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jensen.”

Charlotte placed the earpiece back in the bracket. She collected the articles Mr. Toliver had set out and began perusing them for errors. Fifteen minutes into copyediting, the telephone jangled, startling her out of her thoughts.

She picked up the earpiece and base. “
Cordova Times
.”

“Your call is ready, Miss Brody,” Mrs. Jensen said. “Go ahead, please, Miss Cameron.”

A few clicks and a burst of static later, Kit's voice came over the line. “Charlotte! How ya doin', kid?”

Charlotte grinned at her friend's usual boisterous tone. Kit had always been the one to grab on to the latest slang and cadence of language, though she was a consummate professional when it came to editing
Modern Woman
.

“I'm fine. How are you? Happy early birthday.”

“Ugh. Don't remind me. Mother and Dad are trying to ignore the fact I'm nearly thirty and not married. They don't know what to make of me some days.” She laughed, but Charlotte knew the Camerons were anxious for her to settle down. Kit was always busy with
Modern Woman
or some cause. She went out frequently, but had no one steady.

“I know what you mean.” Charlotte's parents had been supportive of her career and activity in the suffrage movement, but she suspected they were waiting for her to find a husband. Considering her relationship record, she was in no hurry.

Her nearly yearlong association with Richard had initially pleased the Brodys, and they'd dropped more than a few hints last year about engagements and weddings. Charlotte's sudden termination of the relationship a year ago this past August had raised a few questions from her parents. Surprisingly, they'd been sensitive to her distress and had not pushed for more details. They knew nothing of the real reason for the breakup and probably never would.

“How's that handsome deputy of yours?” Kit asked.

“He's not
my
deputy. And what makes you think he's handsome?” Though James certainly was a good-looking man, Charlotte had never described him to Kit. “He could be grimy, toothless, and bug-eyed for all you know.”

Kit laughed. “Is he?”

Charlotte felt a blush heat her neck and cheeks. “No, but he could be.”

Her friend laughed louder, and Charlotte hoped no one else was in the office. “Readers sure see him that way. For a periodical dedicated to the idea of women exerting their independence and strengths apart from men, I get letters every week asking for more information about that ‘strapping, stalwart lawman who lives in Alaska.' ”

“He is that.”

“Charlotte Mae Brody! Are you mooning over a man?”

Damnation. She hadn't meant to say that out loud. She hadn't sighed melodramatically, had she?

“No, of course not.” Though she missed Kit terribly, Charlotte was glad to be conversing from three thousand miles away via telephone. At least Kit wouldn't see her burning cheeks. Kit and Charlotte shared almost everything, and Kit knew her deepest secret, but she hadn't even told Kit about James kissing her. “He's very good at his job, is what I meant.”

“Good to know,” Kit said. “But you didn't call all this way to discuss men. Oh! I have to tell you about this meeting I went to.”

Every time they chatted, there was another exciting lecture Kit had attended, or some rally or march. It sent a pang of homesickness through Charlotte, but at the same time she was happy to have the opportunity to get her life together in the quiet remoteness of Alaska. Well, relatively quiet, if you didn't count the dead bodies.

When it was Charlotte's turn to share news and happenings, Kit was positively horrified by the circumstances of Lyle Fiske's death. She couldn't believe two murders could occur in the same small town in such a short period of time. It had surprised Charlotte too, that was certain.

After an hour of gleaning articles and catching up with Kit, Charlotte said her good-byes.

“You should come up here,” she told Kit. “I think you'd enjoy it, and Michael would certainly be happy to see you.”

Michael had been smitten with Kit off and on during their childhood, and she with him. Their relationship had eventually settled into friendship, and Michael considered Kit another younger sister to fuss over and be frustrated by.

“Maybe,” Kit said. “It would be quite the lark, wouldn't it?” There was a long pause on the line, and Charlotte thought they'd been cut off. Then Kit said, in a more serious tone, “How are you really, Charlotte?”

Kit wasn't asking about her physical health. It was her recovery from the past year, her dismal relationship with Richard, and the aftermath that worried her best friend.

Charlotte moistened her chapped lips. “I'm good. Truly. It helps to keep busy.”

A soft sigh came over the other end. “It does.”

There was something in those two words that sounded off. “Kit, are
you
all right?”

She'd been gone only three months, but anything could have happened. Surely Kit would have told her if there was devastating news.

“Oh, I'm fine. Just tired. Good gravy, look at the time. Gotta meet with Malone. Take care, darling!”

“You too. Talk to you in a couple of weeks.” Charlotte set the earpiece in the bracket and stared at the telephone. It was always bittersweet to talk to Kit or her parents, but it was better that she'd come to Cordova. Better by a long stretch.

Charlotte had traveled north not just to have a journalistic adventure, as she'd told her family and friends, but to get away from memories of her failed relationship with Richard. She needed to put physical distance between herself and constant reminders that she'd been a fool. Months after, she'd start to get back on an even keel, then an announcement that yet another of her schoolmates was getting married or expecting would make her cringe. The inevitable “What about you, Charlotte?” became too much.

Telling them she wasn't ready to settle down was met with stares of incomprehension. Of course she was ready, they'd insist. How could it be otherwise? She'd had her fun playing journalist, marching in parades. It was time to become a productive member of society, and that meant a husband and children in their eyes.

She could explain her reasons ten different ways and still not get them to understand: She wasn't wife and mother material. She'd become tired of trying to tell them not all women wanted that life. Coming to Alaska was intended to help Charlotte put her failings and feelings behind her, but moving thousands of miles away also kept her from beating her head against their walls of outdated expectations.

Taking a deep breath and a moment to clear her head, Charlotte pushed the voices and emotions of the past aside. There was work to be done. Focusing on that would be much more productive than dwelling on things she couldn't change now.

Three hours later, Charlotte got up to make herself some tea. She stood in front of the coal stove, hands spread to absorb heat as her tea steeped, her brain whirling with questions for James. Where had the Fiske store employees been that night? Did Lyle have the reputation for having a temper? Had anyone made complaints against him?