Borrowing Death (9 page)

While she considered approaching James, an unexpected, completely unrelated question popped into her head: Who was the woman who had kissed James on the cheek? She didn't look familiar, but then Charlotte had seen her only from the back.

A flutter ran through her stomach. She couldn't possibly ask him that. It was none of her business. But as friends, shouldn't they be able to ask each other such things?

Of course he was. She wanted to visit with James over a lovely dinner at The Wild Rose. Yet the way he acted toward her, the way he made her feel sometimes . . .

It scared the devil out of her.

He's not Richard,
she reminded herself.

No, but even Richard hadn't become the real Richard until after they'd been together. A man's true self emerged when put under pressure, and what happened between them certainly qualified as pressure.

Would James have reacted the same way?

She wasn't sure, and, in a way, preferred the arm's-length distance she kept him at so she'd never find out. It was safer, not knowing who he really was. Safer that he didn't know who
she
really was.

The rattle of the outer door turned her around, teacup in hand. Michael came in, quickly shut the door behind himself, and gave an exaggerated shiver.

“Getting blustery out there,” he said as he removed his hat and stamped his slush-covered boots on the rug near the door. “Was coming to ask if you wanted to get some coffee or something, but I see you've got your tea. Mary's organizing my office, and I thought I should get out of the way for a bit.”

“I think I could use something stronger than tea, and maybe a slice of pie.” It took Charlotte a moment to remember who Mary was. “How's Mary working out? Did she help you get the autopsy report written?”

She felt a small pang of guilt, having not come back to him to finish her secretarial duties.

“I did it myself, actually,” he said. “Mary has already spoken to a number of her friends in the village about coming to see me if their own methods aren't sufficient. They have a lot of natural remedies that are quite effective, but sometimes even they don't work. Mostly the women seem more inclined to see me than the men are.”

“That's because men don't like to admit they need a doctor unless they're practically at death's door.”

Michael nodded. “True enough.”

“Was Lyle Fiske one of your patients?”

“No, he and Caroline saw Dr. Hastings.”

That figured. Dr. Hastings was the senior physician in town and generally tended the more well-to-do in Cordova. A third doctor, Bergoff, was just getting settled in. “How about Mrs. Derenov, the Fiskes' housekeeper who passed away?”

Michael's expression fell at the mention of the woman's name. Charlotte didn't think he'd had a close, personal relationship with Mrs. Derenov, but as her doctor he would have felt her loss.

“Yes, she was one of mine. Sweet woman. Worked hard all her life and—” He stopped short, frowning.

“And?” Charlotte prompted.

“Other than the Fiskes, she had no one but her son and daughter. The son had been down in the States for quite some time. Mrs. Derenov did well enough, I guess, but she sent money to him for whatever his troubles were.”

“And the daughter?”

“Still in school here. A bit younger than her brother. Though with Mrs. Derenov gone, who knows if she'll stay in school past this year.”

“Doesn't Ben want his sister to get an education?”

Michael's eyebrows lifted. “How do you know Ben Derenov?”

Charlotte hesitated. Michael had become a bit overprotective since she'd arrived in Cordova and didn't particularly care for her poking about for stories. “I went over to the Fiskes' earlier to pay my respects. He was there cutting wood.”

Inside, she cringed slightly at the half truth.

Michael stared at her for a second, trying to see if there was more to it. Which there was, but he didn't need to know that. “I see. I don't know what Ben Derenov has in mind for the two of them. He's the only immediate family Rebecca has. If he decides to stay and can make money, she might be able to finish her schooling.”

“I hope that's the case.” It would be a shame for the girl to quit school because of money woes. Taking her education as far as she could go would be the best thing for Rebecca Derenov, for all young girls and women. Charlotte set her cup on the desk and joined him near the door. “Is his working for the Fiskes their way to help out after Mrs. Derenov died?”

He helped her on with her coat. “Possibly. Or they needed a handyman and Ben happened to be around for the job.”

“That could explain it too,” she said, changing into her boots.

“Why do you always look beyond the simple explanation?”

“Because the simple explanation is rarely interesting. Or the truth. Don't you dig a little further with your patients to make sure the simple explanation is the real reason for their illness?”

“Of course,” he said, holding the door open for her. “It's the responsible thing to do.”

Charlotte locked the door behind them. “And it's my responsibility to get the real story when I write, not just what it appears to be at first glance.”

“I'm sure Eddington appreciates your dedication.”

The sarcasm wasn't lost on her. She lightly punched his shoulder and he laughed.

Michael took her arm to help keep her footing as they traversed the slick walkway, wind in their faces.

“The visitation for Lyle Fiske is tomorrow,” Charlotte said. “Are you going?”

“I wasn't planning on it. Are you?”

“I'd like to. Will you come with me?”

He gave her a curious look. “Since when do you need me, or anyone, to escort you to such a thing?”

Since she decided it might be necessary to have someone who knew more of the people in town than she did to help her identify attendees. But she wouldn't tell Michael that either. “I don't know Caroline all that well and figured your standing and recognition would help.”

“Help get you into the house of a murder victim, you mean.” He shook his head, eyes rolling to the heavens. “Fine. I'll go with you. If you'll make dinner for me tonight.”

“Thanks, and I will, but I'll have to cook for you another time. I'm going to meet James for dinner tonight. Care to join us?” It was bad manners to ask him without James's consideration, but Michael's presence might make her feel more at ease. Keeping the deputy at arm's length when they were alone together was a challenge.

“Oh, no no no.” Michael held up his free hand, waving her request off. “I wouldn't dream of intruding on the two of you.”

“It's not intruding, it's just dinner,” she said more defensively than she'd intended.

“Right.” He tugged his hat down over his ears. “I'm sure Eddington would appreciate me horning in on your date.”

“It's not a date.”

“Uh-huh.”

* * *

Charlotte took a quick bath and changed before meeting James at The Wild Rose. The navy blue wool serge dress was something she usually wore for more professional appointments and meetings, not for dinner. But it was too cold and wet for anything else she had with her. Besides, neither James nor Cordova seemed particular about fancy clothing.

The snow had tapered off, but the slush remained in the streets. Charlotte hurried along as fast as she could while keeping her feet under her. Lights from homes and the few streetlamps helped her avoid the worst puddles, and soon she turned the corner just before The Wild Rose.

The aromas of roasted meat and coffee, with an underlying bite of the cigar smoke from a table of men, hit her as she opened the door. The low murmur of conversation from the men and an older couple accompanied by the tink and clink of silverware filled the small dining room. With fewer than a dozen white cloth-covered tables under individual pendant lights, The Wild Rose wasn't a large restaurant, even by Alaska standards, but it was one of the more attractive Charlotte had dined in.

“Miss Brody.” Will, the owner, came out of the kitchen to her left. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too. I'm waiting for James Eddington.” It was unlikely he'd made a reservation, but James may have mentioned to Will that they were coming.

Will's face brightened. “Excellent. Let me help you with your coat and you can wait here by the fireplace.”

He took her mackinaw, then gestured to a pair of green wingback chairs. Charlotte sat on the edge of one, warming her hands and feet. She almost asked Will to seat her at a table, but knowing him, he wouldn't hear of it.

Charlotte only waited a few minutes, watching the other diners and the staff, before James came in. He removed his hat and searched the dining room. Seeing her as she got to her feet, he smiled. “Sorry I'm late.”

“You aren't.”

James had slicked back his hair, but hadn't shaved.

“Are you growing a beard, deputy?”

He ran his palm over his cheek. “Thinking about it. Gets damn cold here sometimes. Why? Don't you like beards?”

Charlotte shrugged. “If they're well kept. Michael's growing one too, to match his mustache. It makes him look older.”

“Not always a bad thing, especially in his profession.”

He unbuttoned his coat, revealing he had changed clothes as well, but wasn't wearing the more formal attire he'd had on for their first dinner together either. Of course he was wearing his gun, as dictated by his position. Will came to take James's coat and show them to a table. After going over the special for the evening, which they ordered, he promised to bring them some tea.

“How's the investigation going?” Charlotte asked when Will had departed. She kept her voice quiet to prevent the other diners from overhearing.

“Well enough, I guess. Parker and I went over the scene. Fire may have started near the register, where Fiske was found. The explosions we heard were paint thinner and other solvents on the shelves under the counter. It looks like the killer poured something over Fiske, set the fire—”

“To cover the knife wound,” she said.

“Yes. Then spread more solvent and lit it. Inventory on the shelves heated, then blew when the vapors ignited.”

“Michael had said the body wasn't as burned as he'd feared.” Charlotte was once again grateful she hadn't attended the autopsy.

James nodded. “The explosion of cans may have blown out the flames and covered Fiske with debris from the shelves, preserving the body. Whoever did this hadn't considered that.”

“I doubt he was considering anything but hiding his tracks. But it makes me think that perhaps this wasn't the work of the arsonist.” Charlotte grinned when he quirked an eyebrow. “You and Parker don't think so either.”

“No,” he said. “What brought
you
to that conclusion?”

“An arsonist knows his materials. The fires he's set so far haven't been so careless and out of control. If he wanted to set a fire with the intent to destroy evidence of Fiske's murder, it would have been done properly, even in haste.”

James crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat. He inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Well done, Miss Brody.”

She shrugged, ignoring the little thrill that ran through her. “I try.”

A waiter came down the aisle between tables and set their teacups and a teapot before them. He turned to leave, nodding to the well-dressed woman who had come up behind him before he eased around her. Charlotte expected her to sit at the next table, where she'd noticed two men and another woman taking their seats. Instead, the woman strode up to James, grinning.

“Fancy seeing you here, Jimmy.”

James's eyes widened. He shot a glance at Charlotte before rising, like the gentleman he was. “What are you doing here?”

The tall brunette, in a stunning red dress, rolled her eyes at him, still smiling. Was she the woman from earlier that day?

“Having dinner, silly.” She stuck her right hand out to Charlotte. “I'm Stella Eddington.”

“How do you do?” Charlotte automatically shook her hand as the name made its way through her brain. “Eddington?”

James didn't have any sisters. A cousin, perhaps?

“Yep. I'm Jimmy's wife.”

W
ife?

Charlotte's heart lurched. This was the woman she'd seen earlier, the one kissing James on the cheek in front of the federal building. She stared at Stella Eddington, imagining all manner of matrimonial interactions between her and the deputy.

“Damn it, Stella, that isn't funny.” James turned to Charlotte. “Ex-wife.”

It took another few moments to believe him, to convince herself he was telling the truth. To remember that James was a forthright sort of man.

So why hadn't he said anything about a wife or ex-wife in the last few months?

“Such a stickler,” Stella said, laughing. “I know the ink's barely dry on the divorce papers, and it's not official until I file them with the judge, but you can't expect me to add the ‘ex' so soon, can you?”

He wasn't quite divorced yet either. Damnation.

Charlotte clutched the napkin in her fist on her lap, her expression as neutral as possible and her brain flooded with questions. He'd never told her about Stella. How long had they been married? How long had he been in Cordova without her?

“I expect you to behave yourself and not give Charlotte the wrong impression,” he said, his brow furrowed but his voice low and civilized.

Stella pouted prettily. “Aw, don't be like that, Jimmy. I just wanted to stop and say good-bye. I head back to Juneau on the morning steamer.” She met Charlotte's eyes. “Don't get the wrong idea about him, honey. We've been separated for almost a year. I've just been terrible about getting up here with the paperwork, is all. I'll leave you to your dinner. It's been fun, Jimmy. Come down and see me some time.” She grasped James's hand, pecked him on the check, then leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

Charlotte couldn't hear what she said, but whatever it was turned James's face bright red. Gentle hands on his ex-wife's shoulders, he separated himself from her.

“Good-bye, Stella. Give your mother my regards.”

Smiling, Stella waggled her fingers at them and joined her three companions, who had been watching the encounter with curious amusement.

Stiffly, James settled into his chair again, looking ready to snap in two. She knew how he felt. She silently willed him to explain why he'd never told her he was married, never mentioned he was in the process of divorcing. Never said a damn thing about any of this.

Ask him,
Charlotte prodded herself, but she couldn't do that. He had his reasons for not telling her. Everyone deserved their privacy, didn't they? She surely wouldn't want him giving her the third degree about her past.

What should have been friendly, pre-dinner banter between them was replaced with tense silence and nervous fiddling with silverware.

“James,” she began quietly, “it's not a big deal.”

Liar. It was. It felt like a giant cloud hanging over them, and by the tightness of his jaw and the tension of his body, he felt the same. So why hadn't he said anything?

He straightened his forks and knife, then met her gaze. “It's something I wanted to tell you in my own time, in my own way. It's hard for a man to admit failure.”

She covered his hand with hers. “You didn't fail, James, your marriage did. There's a difference.”

“You don't know the details,” he said, shaking his head. “And when you hear them, you won't believe that it wasn't my fault, trust me.”

They stared at each other for several moments, neither moving or speaking. There was guilt in his blue eyes. What did he mean? What had he done or thought he'd done? She didn't think he was infallible, but James Eddington truly seemed like the straight-shooter he appeared to be. Had he reacted to something the way Richard had to Charlotte's news? What was he hiding?

Everyone has their secrets,
that little voice inside reminded her.

“Not here,” he said, when she opened her mouth to ask. “Sorry. I'm not particularly hungry anymore.”

Neither was she, but she didn't want to end the evening like this either.

“Come to my place. I'll make us some tea and sandwiches and we can talk, if you want.”

A number of emotions crossed James's face. Surprise. Relief. Wariness. He laid his napkin on the table, accompanied by a few coins to cover the tea and the waiter's troubles. He rose, his hand grasping hers, strong and warm.

Charlotte stood as well, and they walked to the front of the restaurant without the slightest glance at Stella, her companions, or anyone else. Upon meeting a puzzled Will, James apologized for their unexpected departure and requested their coats. Will retrieved the garments, helped Charlotte with hers, and bade them good night.

Outside, the snow and wind had kicked up again. James took her upper arm to help support her as they walked the few blocks to her home.

“Deputy!”

Stopping beneath the streetlight, she and James both turned toward the man who had shouted out. Bundled in an overcoat, fur hat, and heavy boots, the stout figure hurried to them as fast as his legs and the slick ground would allow.

“Glad I ran into you. Evening, Miss Brody.” Marv Johnson, the owner of the Mirage Club, breathed heavily, hands on hips as he spoke to James again. “Just got a call from my manager. Jack Pettigrew came in sauced to the gills and started in with Ken Harper. Harry settled them down, but Jack refuses to leave. I was just on my way down and saw you. I was hoping you could give me a hand.”

Charlotte and James exchanged looks. She withdrew her arm from his. “Go, I can make it home fine from here.”

“No, let me walk you to the door.” He turned to Johnson. “Won't take a minute.”

Without waiting for Johnson to respond, James took her arm again and guided her to her door. “I'm sorry about this, Charlotte.”

He did look sorry, but relieved too.

“Another time,” she said, smiling. Maybe she was more relieved than she'd care to admit too. Having him tell her what was behind his divorce from Stella meant opening themselves up to a deeper relationship than she was ready for.

James hesitated, as if unsure of what to do by way of departure. After their first dinner together, he had kissed her at her door. It had been one of the best kisses she'd ever experienced.

Charlotte rose up on her toes and pecked him on the cheek. “Good night, deputy.”

Looking less unsure, and with the hint of a smile, James tugged the brim of his hat. “Good night, Miss Brody.”

He waited for her to go inside, then thudded down the stairs to where Johnson waited. She hung her coat in the hall closet and removed her boots. Padding into the kitchen in stocking feet, she added coal to the stove and set the kettle to boil. Cheese from the back porch—where it was cool enough to keep—bread from the bread box, and a can of soup would suffice for dinner.

Charlotte toasted her sandwich while she waited for the soup to heat. She would use the time she had this evening to write more of her Alaska women series for Kit. And not think about James and Stella Eddington.

* * *

Charlotte spent the next morning at the
Times
office. Luckily, there was plenty coming over the teletype about the miners' strike down in the States and events around the world to fill out the pages quickly. And keep her mind off the previous night. Mostly.

Someone from the school had left a page with their activities in the drop box, neatly written but requiring her to type it into the Linotype herself. By the time the last line was cooling in the form, Michael appeared at the door to pick her up for Lyle's visitation.

He wore his black suit and good coat and shoes. His hair had been recently cut, and his mustache was neatly trimmed, though his beard was in that in-between untamable stage.

“Are you seriously going to keep that on your face?” Charlotte asked as he helped her with her coat.

“Why not?” He stroked the whiskers, sounding hurt. A few hairs sprang back, pointing every which way. “It's coming along, I think.”

“The mustache was surprising enough. I'll hardly recognize you in a month.”

“You're just jealous. My face will be warmer than yours this winter.”

Charlotte cocked an eyebrow at him. “Jealous of the warmth, maybe, but not how you achieve it.”

She locked the door and they headed up the street to the Fiske home. Several business owners along Main Street were doing the same. Charlotte and Michael greeted them, exchanged sympathies for Caroline and the terrible manner of Lyle's death, and let the conversation wane as they negotiated the slippery hill.

As they approached the Fiskes' home, Charlotte noticed Ben Derenov standing by the gate leading to the side yard. He leaned on the post, smoking a cigarette and eyeing the visitors. When Charlotte met his gaze, he frowned and disappeared back into the yard.

Mrs. Munson, the housekeeper, greeted everyone with a solemn nod as she took their coats and hats and handed them to a woman to deposit in another room. She quietly directed mourners to the parlor. Charlotte and Michael joined the others, who stood in small groups as they waited to express their condolences to Caroline. Men smoked pipes or cigars, their low voices rumbling through the room. Several women stood together, though a few protectively flanked Caroline where she sat in a wingback chair in the corner near the fireplace. Everyone was dressed in somber finery.

Caroline nodded and smiled wanly at an older gentleman who held her hand, shaking it with each word he spoke. His balding head glinted above a band of white hair, and his thick, white eyebrows were furrowed.

“Who's that?” Charlotte quietly asked Michael.

Michael watched the man for a few moments. “Bob Dexter. He lives out past the Eyaks' village, some six or seven miles from town. Has a little homestead. Doesn't get into town much.”

Charlotte and Michael joined the wife, son, and daughter-in-law of the banker, who spoke with another group of men. Charlotte half listened to the conversation while studying the mourners. She recognized most of the business owners, having seen them at some point or another after she began working for the
Times
. A trio of men around Michael's age stood off to one side. Two of the men were engaged in a quiet, yet intense, conversation, but the third kept glancing down at his feet or up at Caroline.

Charlotte waited for the banker's family to make their way toward the new widow, then asked Michael, “Who are those three men?”

He looked over to where she indicated. “The man in the green suit is Jilt Harris. The larger man with the beard is Otto Kenner. The other is Otto's brother Adam.”

So that was Otto Kenner. Now she had a face to go with the name. He certainly looked strong enough to wield hammers and such all day. Adam Kenner was a few years younger and wiry. Definitely more of the accountant in him.

Adam's frequent eyeing of Caroline made Charlotte wonder about them, but the name of the man in green filtered through her study of the pair. “Jilt?”

“His real name's Norman or Norbert. Something like that. He has a bit of a reputation for lovin' then leavin'. Please don't tell me you're interested in him.”

“Not in the least.” She'd had her fill of that sort. Charlotte gave Michael a discrete nudge as she watched Adam and Caroline. “And give me some credit. I'm not one to look for men at a wake.”

Adam and Caroline didn't stare at each other, but each time their gazes met, Adam's brow wrinkled and he glanced away. Caroline was unreadable, allowing no reaction to mar her expression of grief.

Either Adam Kenner was a sensitive young man, sharing the widow's emotions, or he was Caroline's concerned lover. Or wanted to be.

“What do you know about Adam Kenner?” Charlotte asked Michael.

He sipped a glass of punch he'd picked up from the sideboard. “He and his brother came up from Portland to work on the railroad. Otto's a carpenter, but laid track. Adam did too, even though that isn't his profession. Once the railroad was finished, they went into business for themselves.”

“Are they particularly friendly with the Fiskes?”

“Not that I'm aware of. I'm sure Otto did business with Lyle. It's possible Adam was his accountant, but don't quote me on that. Why?”

“I think Adam fancies Caroline.” Perhaps more than fancies if they were already together.

Michael looked at Adam and Caroline, turning his head as if trying to catch the two of them blatantly winking and flirting. Charlotte grabbed his arm. “Stop that!” she whispered fiercely. “You're terrible at surreptitious observation.”

He imitated her volume and tone. “Damn it, Charlotte, I'm a doctor, not a spy. Why are you interested in Adam Kenner and Caroline Fiske?”

Charlotte kept her voice down, well aware of the people in the room. She would bet most of them knew of or suspected Caroline's extramarital affairs, but it wasn't up to Charlotte to fuel rumors. “If Adam is Caroline's lover, could he have been confronted by Lyle? Or act against Lyle?”

Michael's eyes widened. He started to turn his head to look at Adam, but caught himself. Still whispering, he said, “Ridiculous. Adam isn't the type.”

“Isn't the type to sleep with another man's wife, or to kill him?” she asked.

“Neither.”

Charlotte glanced at the younger Kenner brother. He did appear to be less physical or physically intimidating than his brother. Maybe he wasn't the type to attack another man. But love and jealousy did strange things to even the mildest of souls.

She needed to know for sure that Adam and Caroline were together. Would there be any proof other than the blatant puppy dog stares? Letters, perhaps?