Borrowing Death

by Cathy Pegau

  “Get your coat,” he said to his sister. “Dinner’s nearly ready, and you’ve got chores to do.”

  Rebecca gave Charlotte an apologetic glance, then removed the apron. Handing it to Charlotte, she went over to the rack to don her coat, hat, and scarf. When she was bundled up, she smiled at Charlotte. “Thank you for showing me everything, Miss Brody. I had a wonderful time.”

  Charlotte returned the smile. “So did I. Come back whenever you can. And I’d love to read the stories you’ve written, if you’re willing to show me.”

  Rebecca’s brown eyes shined. “Oh, I would. I’ll bring something by soon. Good night.”

  “Good night, Rebecca.” Charlotte met Ben’s hard gaze. “Good night, Mr. Derenov. Again, my apologies.”

  Ben yanked the door open and ushered his sister out. Before it closed, Charlotte heard him start lecturing Rebecca on worrying about work and chores rather than writing.

  Disappointment replaced the joy Charlotte had felt while visiting with Rebecca. Her brother didn’t encourage the girl’s aspiration of being a writer. Charlotte understood the need for practicality when it came to financial straits, but was it necessary for him to flat-out toss her dream aside?

  Poor kid.

  She sat down at the desk to finish her tea. Looking over the next articles she’d set, Charlotte decided something else along with the mental calculation of where lines would fall: She would support Rebecca Derenov’s goal of becoming a writer any way she could manage.

  And she hoped she could get Ben Derenov to see it was important for dreams to be fostered even during tough times. Perhaps especially during those times.

  * * *

  Before heading home for a quick supper, with plans to return to the Times to finish setting the paper afterward, Charlotte walked to the marshal’s office. The sinking sun cast pink alpine glow on the mountains to the southeast. The sky had cleared and there was a colder bite to the air. The weather in these parts sure was changeable.

  Charlotte pulled open the door to the office. James wasn’t at his desk, and the door to Marshal Blaine’s private office was closed. The low rumble of male voices came from behind the frosted glass. She stopped at the door and listened. Not to eavesdrop, really, but to ascertain the tone of the conversation. If it sounded like James and the marshal were having a heated argument, Charlotte would come back another time. No yelling or raised tones.

  Were they discussing the Fiske case?

  She made herself as comfortable as she could on the straight-back chair before James’s desk. There were papers and files open for all to see, and it was too tempting not to look.

  A quick glance told her the pages had nothing to do with the Fiske case. Uninterested in Mr. Vero’s complaint against Mr. Harris for busting his fence, she shifted on the chair and settled in. She didn’t have to wait long. The marshal’s door opened and James came out, a scowl on his face.

  Uh-oh. Maybe she shouldn’t have stayed after all. The conversation with the marshal may have been in civil tones, but whatever was said had irritated the deputy.

  When he saw her sitting at his desk, James’s frown softened to a smile. Charlotte’s heart made an off-rhythm twitch. The memory of their kisses—the first in the rain outside Sullivan’s rooming house in August, the one two days ago behind the rail yard—came rushing back in a warm wave.

  Behind him, Marshal Blaine stood at his door. He gave Charlotte a curt nod. She and the marshal were friendly enough, though certainly not bosom buddies. He was tolerant of her questions, which she appreciated. Charlotte nodded back, smiling. He closed his door.

  “Miss Brody. How are you today?” James asked as he came around the desk.

  “Good evening, deputy. I’m well. How are you? How was your jaunt out the rail line?”

  Since their walk and kiss, things had gone back to normal between them, yet there was still an underlying tension. At least on her part. She wasn’t sure what to do about her feelings about him. Or what, exactly, those feelings were. Just friends? More? Kissing him sure made if difficult not to think of the potential for more. It was all a big muddle in her head. His patience while she figured it out was nearly that of a saint compared to other men she knew.

  “Bob Dexter thinks someone’s stealing his chickens, and Sarah Paine threatened her husband with a shotgun.” He sat down. “Nothing too unusual. What can I do for you?”

  Charlotte was grateful he was able to set aside their pesky personal issues and get to the point. It was something she needed to work on. “I want to talk to you about a couple of things.”

  “Related to the Fiske case, I reckon?”

  “Yes, though I’m not sure what you already know or what might be useful.”

  “Won’t know until you tell me,” he said, grinning.

  “True. First off, did you know about Fiske’s illegal pawn operation?”

  The pleasant look on his face turned sour. “I did, though we never had anyone come right out and accuse him of anything we could nail him on. Mostly rumors and the like. Folks are pretty tight-lipped over illegal doings around here.”

  Charlotte stared at him, a glimmer of hurt in her chest. “You knew? Why didn’t you tell me? What if the robbery and murder were related to that and not just random chance?”

  “Because I can’t share everything I know about every case, Charlotte. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I spilled all my inside knowledge, now, would I?”

  He had a point, but it still rankled a bit that he’d held back.

  “The question is,” he said, “how do you know about it?”

  She smiled sweetly at him. “Now, James, I can’t share anonymous sources, can I? My job relies upon a certain amount of trust and discretion.”

  His lips pressed together and he narrowed his eyes. “Funny. So what do you know about Fiske’s side business?”

  “Probably not as much as you do, but what I do know is that someone is returning things that Fiske was holding.” The surprised look on his face made her feel better about their little information game.

  “Why do that? And how?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “I have no idea about the why. Guilt? Sympathy for people being under Fiske’s thumb? As for the how, that would have to do with the notebook Fiske kept.”

  “Notebook? I’m guessing he kept it in the same box Caroline was looking for.” James rubbed his palm over the new beard on his chin. “Makes sense that Fiske kept some sort of record. The thief takes this box with some small items people pawned, the notebook, and the legal papers. Maybe some money too. But he doesn’t want everything in the box. Papers might be kept or thrown out. As for the pawned goods, may be hard to sell them here.”

  “Or he feels guilty, or wants Lyle’s customers to get their things back without paying,” she reminded him.

  “Right. So how did your source get their item back?”

  Being careful not to use specific pronouns, she said, “They found it on their porch in a plain package.”

  “And came to you. Why?”

  “Because they wanted to remain anonymous, of course.” It seemed simple and reasonable to her, but the perturbed look on his face told her James didn’t quite feel the same way. “Honestly, James, telling the marshal’s office might be more trouble for them, don’t you think?”

  “What I think is this person might have been the killer. Maybe they were lying about how they ‘found’ their pawned item and came to you to appear to be innocent. Did you consider that?”

  Of course she hadn’t, because she knew Della wouldn’t have done such a thing. Well, probably not. But she definitely wasn’t the perpetrator in this case. “My source doesn’t fit the description of someone seen at the fire.”

  “What?” He sat up straighter, if that was possible, eyes bright. “You have information? A witness?”

  She had promised Henry she wouldn’t snitch, and she’d keep that promise. “I do. Well, in a manner of speaking.”

  James’s forehead furrowed, then h
e quirked an eyebrow at her. “Will I ever get a straight answer from you?”

  Charlotte smiled, but her stomach quivered for some reason. Probably not. “I will when I can, or if it’s dire. You know that.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head slightly. “So what do you have that you can tell me?”

  She took a deep breath. “The arsonist wasn’t responsible for the Fiske fire.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Another reliable anonymous source.” That was true. She trusted Henry despite his admission.

  “You mean the arsonist.” James leaned forward, forearms on the desk, his eyes hard and intense. “You spoke to him.”

  “I did, and he promised no more fires.” Charlotte hoped Henry was finished, for the year at least. Whether he’d feel the need to set more next year on the anniversary of his parents’ death remained to be seen. “But there’s something he told me you should know.”

  Obviously frustrated with her or the arsonist, he raked his fingers through his hair and sat back. “He was at Fiske’s that night. What—”

  She held up a hand to forestall his asking the questions she knew were popping into his head. “Near, but not responsible for the fire. He saw someone coming out of the front door right before flames erupted.”

  “Who?”

  “He couldn’t tell me. The man he saw was turned away from him. All he saw was dark hair and a strong build, and something in the man’s hands. Likely the box.”

  “Clothing? Where was the arsonist when he saw this? What time had he been there? Did he hear any arguing? See anyone else? Damn it, Charlotte—”

  “Slow down. I’ll tell you all I know.” She relayed Henry’s description and what had happened and what he saw, though it wasn’t as detailed as James probably wanted. There was no confirmed identification or any indication Fiske and his killer had exchanged words.

  James took notes, his lips pressed together. When she finished, he tapped his pen on the desk. “It’s not much.”

  “No, but it’s more than you had.”

  He held her gaze. “And you’re sure your arsonist wasn’t involved.”

  “He’s not my arsonist, just a source. He didn’t have to come to me at all, you know.”

  The deputy laid the pen down and sighed. “I know, but he trusted you for some reason. So did your pawn client. Why?”

  Charlotte shrugged. She couldn’t say much more without betraying Henry or Della. “I’m a trustworthy soul?”

  The corner of James’s mouth ticked upward. “That must be it.”

  She blew a raspberry at him, and he chuckled. “Maybe because I’m less intimidating that a certain lawman. Seriously, James, while the man’s face might not have been seen, it sounds like he was too broad in the shoulders to be Adam Kenner.”

  “If not Adam—”

  “Otto.” Charlotte had been leaning toward the elder Kenner.

  “Maybe,” James said emphatically. “Or it was someone completely different. There’s no evidence Otto is responsible or has motive, other than he and Fiske didn’t get along.”

  “If that personality clash meant Otto felt his business was being threatened, he had strong motivation and opportunity. Who else would want Lyle dead, accidentally or otherwise? Surely the man didn’t have that many mortal enemies.”

  “Another pawn customer? Someone who felt cheated by Fiske?”

  She had to agree that it was possible. But who? How many were there? “There has to be more than a few. Without the notebook, there’s no way to find out.” Charlotte stood, buttoning her coat. “There isn’t much in the way of tangible evidence, is there?”

  “Find the box and we find the notebook.” James rose and followed her to the door. “I can look closer at Otto Kenner, but not at the expense of wearing blinders to other possibilities. I’ll talk to him again, see if I can trip him up over his alibi. He leases a warehouse near the canneries from Squint Bauer. That might have something in it.”

  The thrill of the hunt for evidence went through her. “Are you going out there?”

  “Me, yes. You, no.” Warning and concern filled his eyes. “I’m serious, Charlotte. Otto’s ready to blame you for anything and everything that happens to him. Don’t give him reason to charge you with harassment or do something worse than haul you into my office. If he catches you anywhere near him and I’m not around, I’m afraid I’d have to charge him with some terrible crime.” He lifted her chin slightly and stared into her eyes. “If I don’t kill him first.”

  “You wouldn’t.” His confession and guilt over the man he’d hurt when he suspected Stella of cheating on him had made Charlotte believe James would never do such a thing again. “You promised.”

  “I promised to not beat a man in a jealous rage. I make no such promises when it comes to protecting you.”

  James touched his lips to hers and Charlotte closed her eyes. She placed her palm on his chest to steady herself. God help her, she shouldn’t let him do things like this.

  Stop fooling yourself. You aren’t “letting” him do anything you don’t want.

  True. Too true.

  Pushing herself away from him, she took an extra half step back and said, “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to anything that drastic.”

  He lowered his hand. “It won’t. But it’s better if you wait for me to give you information rather than poke around on your own.”

  “You would think I was coming down with something if I ever did that.” She set her hat on her head, grinning, trying to pretend her lips weren’t still tingling.

  James opened the door. “That’s the truth. Have a good evening, Miss Brody.”

  “You too, deputy.”

  Charlotte left the federal building. Standing on the walk, she drew in a long, slow breath. The cold cleared her head some, but it didn’t erase the sensation of his mouth on hers.

  Damnation.

  Chapter 11

  On Tuesday morning, Charlotte stood in the middle of the post office, fishing in her satchel for the key Mr. Toliver had given her. The damn thing always seemed to make its way into the corner of her bag, often hiding until she dumped the contents out.

  Ah! There it was. She extracted the key and fit it into the lock of box number 502. Inside were several subscription payments and a bill for Mr. Toliver from Lerner & Sons Menswear in Seattle.

  Charlotte tucked the mail into her satchel and closed the brass door.

  “Miss Brody, do you have a minute?”

  Caroline Fiske, dressed in widow’s black, stood with her gloved hands grasping a small purse. Her makeup, little that Charlotte could detect, didn’t quite cover the bruise-colored circles under her eyes, and her pale complexion attested to restless nights.

  “Of course, Mrs. Fiske. What can I do for you?”

  Caroline glanced over at the mail clerk standing behind the counter, making no pretense that she wasn’t listening. She grinned at the two women.

  “Perhaps we can take a walk, if you’re not in a hurry,” Caroline suggested.

  “I’m not.”

  Caroline led the way to the post office door and held it for Charlotte. Charlotte preceded her down the stairs, ready to grasp the bannister should she slip or—

  Don’t be ridiculous.

  Caroline Fiske wasn’t about to shove her down the stairs. Even if she had masterminded her husband’s murder, surely she wouldn’t try to kill Charlotte literally in front of the marshal’s office on the ground floor.

  When she reached the bottom, Charlotte tried to ignore the fact that James was likely on the other side of the door. He was a different risk altogether.

  Caroline joined her and the two continued onto the walk. The noon whistle at the rail yard had blown less than an hour before and the sun peeked through fat white clouds. The snow had abated for the time being, giving everyone the chance to shovel walks.

  Up the street, the man from the Brite-White Laundry secured a bundle of clothes on a sled. The si
x-dog team yipped and yapped, dancing in place. The man stepped onto the back of the sled, jerked the snow hook from the ground, and grasped the handlebar.

  “Hike!” he yelled, and the dogs bolted, yapping excitedly. “Hike,” he called again, and the dogs ran faster.

  Like a scene from The Call of the Wild—minus the laundry bags—the sled zipped down the snowy street, heading east out of town, the man encouraging his team all the way. Though Charlotte knew the delivery man worked long, hard hours, it sure looked like he was having a good time. The dogs certainly were.

  “Are you headed to your office?” Caroline asked.

  “I am. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  They started walking, but Caroline didn’t speak until they passed a pair of men standing outside the cigar store beside the federal building.

  “You spoke to Adam the other night,” she said. It was a simple statement, with no inflection of accusation or concern. No emotion of any sort that Charlotte could detect.

  “I did.”

  “And he told you about my marriage.” She flicked a glance at Charlotte, but nothing more.

  “He did.”

  Caroline nodded. Was she only after confirmation? Not likely.

  “Do you truly think Adam killed Lyle?”

  The abruptness of Caroline’s question surprised Charlotte. Subtlety was not on the table this afternoon.

  “Do you?” Charlotte asked. From Henry’s description of the man he saw at Fiske’s Hardware that night, she figured Otto for the murder. Could the brothers have schemed together?

  Caroline didn’t hesitate. “No. Adam is a good man. He has a kind heart. He wouldn’t do something like that.”

  “Even if you asked him to?”

  She stopped in the middle of the walk and stared at Charlotte. There was no vehement reaction of denial. No demand that Charlotte take back such a terrible accusation. Was Caroline concerned that Adam could have taken matters into his own hands after hearing about the humiliation and abuse she suffered at Lyle’s? If he had, would Adam withhold the papers he knew she was so desperate to find? To what end? Even if Adam didn’t want to present them to her himself, he could find a way to have the papers delivered anonymously.