Borrowing Death

by Cathy Pegau

  “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 C
harlotte. She’d make sure the article was typed just as it was written.

  “I’ll get to work on it right now.” She started toward the printing room.

  Toliver called her back. “I appreciate you standing by your convictions, Miss Brody, but can I offer you a word of advice?”

  Charlotte frowned at her boss. “If it’s ‘make nice’ with Mrs. Hillman and her friends, you may as well fire me now.”

  “Oh, good Lord, woman, no one expects miracles.” He smiled and she grinned back, relieved. “Just be careful. This is a small town and social politics are a local pastime. There’s a certain ‘us versus them’ attitude you need to be aware of.”

  “I won’t kowtow to the likes of that woman.” Charlotte had learned long ago that letting bullies get away with threats only made things worse.

  “I’m not asking you to do that at all. As a journalist, neutrality on issues is key. You’re supposed to report the news, not necessarily make it.” Toliver wasn’t quite lecturing her, and Charlotte tried not to take it as such.

  “As a human being and a citizen of this country,” she said, “I have the right to my opinion.”

  He nodded. “Of course you do, which is why your article ran as an opinion piece. The League also has that right. But Mrs. Hillman can be a force to be reckoned with.”

  “She’s not the only one.”

  “I know that too,” Toliver said with a gentle smile. “That’s why I asked you to come aboard in the first place. Try not to let her get to you, eh? Weigh the risks and consequences of challenging her, or anyone.”

  Charlotte understood his dilemma. Andrew Toliver did his best to let all voices be heard, but the Times was his life. If Hillman and her friends pushed hard enough, they might influence businesses to pull advertisements, or start a skirmish within the pages of the paper. While that might increase readership, there was also a potential for boycotting.

  She didn’t think the entire town backed either her or Hillman, but Toliver shouldn’t risk his livelihood on her stubbornness. No blaming him there. She’d withstood threats and vandalism when she wrote for the papers back East and knew all too well how personal opinion or activity could influence the newspaper business. Readership waxed and waned with controversial articles, but Toliver and the Times didn’t have the resources to keep afloat if too many stopped reading.

  “I’ll be civil to Mrs. Hillman and her friends.”

  “That’s all I ask.” He squared himself behind the desk and shuffled through more papers. “All right, get on that article, please, Miss Brody, and get yourself home at a decent hour.”

  Charlotte started toward the print room again, then stopped and turned back. “Thank you, Mr. Toliver.”

  He waved absently. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “Oh, I plan to, sir.”

  Chapter 4

  Charlotte stayed home the next morning to work on her series for Modern Woman. She’d interviewed the proprietresses of Frankle & Taylor Ladies’ Finery, who had come to Alaska nearly twenty years before during the Nome gold rush. Theirs was an exciting tale of two young women succeeding in a rough and wild mining town that tested the toughest of all who were drawn there. Penelope Frankle had been an assayer, buying gold, and Rowena Taylor made herself a nice little nest egg mining on the crowded beach of the remote town. Now in their forties, the two friends had settled down together in the more amicable Cordova.

  Charlotte’s readers would love it. But only if she got it to New York and into the hands of her Modern Woman editor and best friend, Kit Cameron. Kit was understanding when it came to the inherent hiccups of the postal service between Alaska and the States, but Charlotte tried to avoid escalating hiccups into all-out distress for her and Mr. Malone, the publisher.

  Just after noon, she finished the draft, promising herself to go over it later and get it out on the next ship, and headed to Brigit’s. Careful to keep her footing on the icy road, she descended the hill to Main Street, then down toward Michael’s office. There was a shortcut to Brigit’s just about behind Michael’s, but chances were good that no one had cleared it of snow. Rather than risk a bad fall, she went the long way, around the corner and down the street.

  Charlotte knocked on the door. It wasn’t so early in the day that Brigit and the girls would still be asleep. Charlie was likely in school, since it was Tuesday, otherwise he was the unofficial answerer of the door before business hours.

  The filigreed brass peep box didn’t slide open, as usual, before the door latch clicked. Brigit smiled as she held the door for Charlotte. “I saw you from the upstairs window. Come in.”

  She followed Brigit into the entry. Someone was in the parlor running a sweeper and singing. Della’s sweet voice, and not a stutter to be heard. Brigit took Charlotte’s hat and coat and had her change her boots for a pair of soft slippers.

  “How are you doing?” Charlotte asked as she accompanied Brigit into her office.

  The madam shrugged, a sad smile on her face. “Getting on as best I can.” She tilted her head. “How are you doing? You were more than a little affected yourself the other day.”

  Charlotte swallowed hard; the reminder of their conversation caught her off guard. “I’m fine. Really.”

  She was lying, and Brigit probably knew it.

  “Let me know if I can do anything for you, all right?” Brigit’s sincere offer was accompanied by a warm squeeze of Charlotte’s arm. Charlotte’s throat tightened and she could only nod.

  “Have a seat,” Brigit said, indicating one of the two chairs at a small table near her desk. There were matching plates, cups for tea, and bowls at each place. Beside the table, a rolling cart held an ornate soup tureen. “I’ll get the sandwiches. Is there anything else you’d like?”

  Recovering from the unexpected emotion, Charlotte smiled at her friend. “No, thanks. This is wonderful.”

  Brigit grinned and left the room. It was funny how she and Brigit had become friends, yet they hardly knew anything about each other. Charlotte had discovered a little about Brigit’s past during the whole ugly business of the Darcy Dugan murder, but Brigit rarely volunteered information. The news about her friend Camille had been an exception. Then again, Charlotte wasn’t exactly forthcoming with her own flawed history.

  “Here we go.” Brigit returned in a few minutes and closed the door behind her. She set the plate of sandwiches between them, ladled soup from the tureen, then sat down. “Split pea soup. My mother’s recipe.”

  “You cook?” Charlotte couldn’t help the surprise in her voice. The women usually took turns preparing meals and taking care of the house, though Brigit had hired someone to help out with some chores.

  Brigit laughed and winked. “I have many skills outside of the bedroom.”

  Charlotte knew she was a savvy businesswoman as well. Brigit’s house was one of the few remaining in Cordova, known to have a reputation for quality entertainment, be it in services or gaming.

  They each enjoyed a few bites of their food—the soup was marvelous—and made small talk before getting to the true point of the visit.

  “You alluded to something last night,” Charlotte said, “about the Fiskes not being all they appeared to be. What did you mean by that?”

  Brigit wasn’t one to gossip; her livelihood depended on discretion. She wouldn’t say anything if she didn’t think it was important to the investigation of the fire or the death of Lyle Fiske.

  The madam dabbed at her lips with her linen napkin. “Everyone has their secrets, don’t they, Charlotte?”

  Charlotte stared at her friend. Brigit certainly had hers. Was she referring to Charlotte’s reluctance to tell her own secrets the other day? Everyone kept things to themselves, but what secrets were worth killing a man over?

  “The Fiskes had an open marriage,” Brigit continued, “though neither broadcast the fact. Appearances and all that. He quietly saw girls here or at other houses from time to time. She’s said to have a lover who’s more . . . s
atisfying than her husband.”

  Having an affair wasn’t anything new, but people usually tried to be more discreet. Maybe the Fiskes figured living in a small town meant everyone would know sooner or later anyway.

  “Who?”

  Brigit shrugged. “I don’t know and really don’t care. I’m sure Lyle knew, but he wasn’t complaining. He was just talking. That’s what he usually did here. Talk.”

  That didn’t surprise Charlotte. A lot of men visited brothels just for a little companionship. “Were you the one to have conversations with him?”

  “Sometimes,” Brigit said. She sipped her tea. “More often than not it was one of the other girls. He was partial to Marie for a while.”

  Marie had left not long after Charlotte had arrived in Cordova. She wondered how Marie was doing back in the States.

  “If they weren’t happy with each other, why stay married?” Charlotte asked.

  “Why divorce? He gets a wife who has social acumen to help his business and standing in the community. She benefits from the financial and social stability. As long as they’re both in agreement of expectations, no one gets hurt, right?”

  But someone did get hurt. The question was, did their arrangement have anything to do with the fire and Lyle’s death?

  “Maybe Lyle got tired of being the cuckold,” Charlotte suggested. “Maybe he called Caroline’s lover in to tell him to leave her be, and the lover refused.”

  “They fought and things got out of hand,” Brigit said, finishing the scenario.

  “Or Caroline wanted out of the marriage and Lyle refused,” Charlotte said. “Maybe she sent her lover to make him change his mind.” Though that was less likely, it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility.

  “And then things got out of hand.” Brigit nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Men can become possessive, even when they’ve given up claim, be it woman or object.”

  Love and jealousy did strange things to people, to their ability to act and think logically.

  “What about other people who may have had problems with Fiske?” Charlotte asked. Businessmen sometimes made enemies, whether they ran large corporations or small town stores.