by Cathy Pegau
“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 the
y 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?
“Come on,” Michael said, touching her arm. “It’s our turn.”
The two women flanking Caroline smiled thinly when they approached. Caroline looked up, reaching toward Michael’s outstretched hand.
“So sorry for your loss,” he said, bowing slightly.
Caroline nodded, then turned to Charlotte. Her sad smile faltered. “I understand you came by the other day, Charlotte. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to see you.”
There was a knowing glint in her eyes. Caroline was well aware that Charlotte had stopped by after the incident in the burnt-out store, while Caroline was on her way to somewhere other than her home. Was she waiting for Charlotte to bring it up?
“Absolutely understandable, Caroline.” Charlotte gathered the widow’s hand in hers, patting it reassuringly. “If there’s anything I can do for you—anything at all—please let me know.”
The other woman said nothing for a few moments. Hopefully she would see Charlotte as someone to be trusted, but it was difficult to tell.
Caroline thanked them for coming, then eased her hand from Charlotte’s.
Politely dismissed, Charlotte and Michael joined the others again. With everyone down in the parlor, it was the perfect opportunity for her to slip away.
“Excuse me, Michael, I need to use the bathroom before we leave.”
As if sensing she was up to something, Michael gave her a warning glare just before a fellow member of the city council drew him into a conversation.
Charlotte made her way out of the parlor and into the entry. No one was about. She hurried up the stairs, keeping her footsteps as light as possible to not announce her route. At the top, the hallway ran the length of the house, with several rooms on this floor. Doors were ajar but none completely closed.
She poked her head in the first open door. A sewing room. The black Singer on its walnut table dominated the small space. A dressmaker’s mannequin modeled the majority of a deep purple dress, its unattached sleeves draped over the back of a chair. Baskets and boxes were stacked along the walls. Did Caroline sew her own clothes, or was it the work of Mrs. Munson?
The two bedrooms on the second floor were of good size, each with a wardrobe and vanity. The larger was obviously the Fiskes’ room, and Charlotte assumed the smaller one, separated by the lavatory, was a guest room. With half an ear focused on the stairway, she quickly searched the vanity in the Fiskes’ room. Nothing jumped out at her indicating who Caroline was seeing. Didn’t lovers usually write to each other? If not detailed letters, at least a cryptic note or two? There were a few pieces of correspondence, all from what appeared to be friends and relatives in the States.
Car
oline may have hidden any notes from her lover, but Charlotte didn’t have time to search every nook and cranny.
Listening for anyone coming up, and confident all remained downstairs, Charlotte dashed to the room at the end of the hall. An office and library, with neat shelves lining the walls and smelling of cigars and old books. A pair of thickly padded, red-and-gold-brocade-covered chairs sat on either side of a tall lamp with a tasseled shade. The desk wasn’t as massive as the one in Lyle Fiske’s store office, though its squat, black shape seemed about to drop through to the first floor of the house. She could imagine the difficulty of getting the thing up the stairs.
Charlotte rounded the desk. The credenza against the wall there had a tray of crystal tumblers and a decanter of some sort of scotch or whiskey. Personal alcohol use didn’t necessarily interest the marshals who enforced Alaska’s dry laws, but Charlotte had to wonder where their supply came from. Did everyone bring a bottle or two back when they visited the States?
Pushing the thought aside, she tugged the handles on each of the three deep drawers on either side of the center desk drawer, as well as the center drawer. All were locked.
Damnation.
She doubted anything of Caroline’s was in the desk, but perhaps there was something in Lyle’s records that might hint at troubles brewing within his business circle. Or perhaps this was where he’d moved the mysterious black box. But wouldn’t Caroline have searched here?
The locks didn’t appear to be too formidable. A gal she knew in college used to get herself back into the locked dormitory using a hairpin. Charlotte had once asked how she worked the makeshift picks. Helen happily showed her. It had been a few years; could she remember the proper technique?
Charlotte eased two pins out from behind her ear, bent them the way she recalled being instructed, and knelt on the floor. Half listening for footfalls, she inserted the pins inside the lock of the center drawer. The thin metal scraped on the mechanism, caught on something, then clicked.
Surprised, Charlotte carefully twisted the pin. The lock turned. “Ah!”
She opened the drawer. Neat piles of papers and envelopes were stacked alongside engraved silver pens. Nothing useful or screaming “I’m cheating customers” to be found.
